


By the Grace

by lettered



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety, Blood purity, Depression, Lots and lots of coffee, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Therapy, reference to suicide attempt (in the past)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 123,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22062673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettered/pseuds/lettered
Summary: Harry is an Auror instructor. Malfoy wants to be an Auror.NB: This fic is finished. The last chapters are being edited; one will be posted every few days.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 757
Kudos: 1179
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Buildyourwalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buildyourwalls/gifts).



> This fic is for Fandom Trumps Hate, written for buildyourwalls. Buildyourwalls, you were so so so generous and patient with me while I wrote this story. I'm sorry it's not all on time, but I hope to write something you like. Thank you so, so much for your kindness, friendship, and donation!
> 
> Thanks to Z, who listened to me whine about this fic endlessly.
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who has always been so kind about my fic and encouraged me over the years.

_Grace is given for that which cannot be forgiven._

*

**Part I**

*

“I can’t believe we’re even considering this,” said Penelope to the instructors of the Auror Academy seated around the table.

“We’re done considering it,” Baggot said wearily. “The war is long over, Clearwater. You’d do well to remember it.”

“You’d do well to remember that there was a war in the first place,” said Savage, who had become an instructor after her retirement. “I didn’t see you there fighting He Who Must Not Be Named.”

“He must be named,” said Baggot, who had been in the US, liaising with MACUSA during the second Wizard War. “His name was Voldemort.”

Savage shuddered, and several faces around the board room table went pale. 

In a room full of people, the amount of oxygen slowly dwindled as people breathed in oxygen and released carbon dioxide. Harry could feel his lungs struggling, his heart beating harder as though to compensate, heat beginning to press at his temples, squeezing slowly. 

Baggot was a good-looking man with a very broad frame, a round face, bright blue eyes, who said in his gentle-giant voice, “Get over it.”

“Right,” said Savage. “What’s a little war and blood massacre between friends?”

“We’re not talking about ancient history,” said Penelope, whose voice was always surprisingly strident coming from her slight frame. After having trained to become an Auror, she had been in the field ten years before deciding to become an instructor at the Academy. “We’re talking about Draco Malfoy’s application to the Academy. I think it’s absurd.”

“He passed the exam,” said Baggot. “Our policy is to admit—”

“He barely passed the exam,” said Penelope, “and our policy is to train the next generation of Aurors to protect the wizarding world from corruption and crime. We really think Draco Malfoy is going to be a shining example of magical justice? Let’s go re-admit Dawlish, shall we?”

“Dawlish wasn’t responsible for his actions during the war. He was under Confundus,” said Savage, and Penelope whirled on him.

“Dawlish was a collaborator,” she snapped.

Harry wanted to leave his body, the hot tug of blood in his cheeks, his hot breath, sweat beginning at his under arms. He imagined himself somewhere colourless, cool, gray—like a Penseive, inside a memory. As soon as he pictured this, he remembered another table, another time.

“And where were you?” Savage demanded of Penelope. “While I was in the Order of the Phoenix, where were you?”

“Attending Academy,” Penelope told Savage, “so I could become an Auror and fight. Are you really going to condemn me because I was too young to fight your battles?”

“And let’s face it,” said Dirk Spragg, who was the youngest Academy faculty member. He’d never been an Auror but had read in Magical Law at Avalon and had published several well-known books on the subject. “We can hardly say the Auror Force is a ‘shining example of magical justice’ _now_.”

“Sod off,” Penelope told Spragg, at the same time as Savage told him, “Fuck you.”

Spragg’s voice had a pleasant cadence that always made it sound like he was saying something deeply meaningful, and Harry was still remembering another table, inside a Pensieve, only now he was beginning to recognize it. At the Trials the memories of the Death Eaters had been projected into the room, and Harry sometimes remembered them as though he had been there. At times, he had; at the trials, he’d seen Cedric’s death through seven pairs of eyes.

“It’s true,” Spragg said, in his young, passionate voice. “I don’t see any Aurors questioning any Revealers about the latest ward-drop. How is that making the world safer for Vulnerables?”

“We call them Muggles,” said Savage.

“That’s a slur,” said Spragg.

“Calling Muggles ‘Vulnerables’ is a slur,” said Savage. 

“It’s the same old story,” said Povey, another instructor. “Over and over and over again. Do we have to have this argument every time?”

Harry didn’t want to look around the room. He didn’t want to look around the table and see the faces of Death Eaters, the Muggle Studies professor suspended over them.

Penelope leaned across the table toward Spragg. “Aurors are a little busy protecting the wizarding world from dark wizards to question your political opponents, _Instructor_ Spragg.”

“Pardon me, but there aren’t dark wizards any more, _Auror_ Clearwater,” said Spragg. “They’re a fever dream made up by the people who want to keep fighting a war that’s already over—people who miss the glory days when they thought they fought the good fight.”

“We did fight the good fight!” Savage thundered, and Harry saw her anyway: Professor Burbage, suspended over the table. Harry closed his eyes.

“Seventeen years ago,” said Spragg.

“So we’ll just pretend Draco Malfoy was never a Death Eater, won’t we?” said Penelope. “Just let bygones be bygones.”

Behind his eyes, Harry could still see her—Professor Burbage, begging Professor Snape. _Count your breaths._ The thought came in Kavika’s voice. _Note your surroundings. Ground yourself._

“Draco Malfoy was a child,” Spragg said. “Children deserve forgiveness.”

“Draco Malfoy let Death Eaters into Hogwarts,” Penelope said. “He’s the reason—”

“Hogwarts was a terrible place for children!” Spragg sneered, and Harry could feel his blood pumping, pumping, pumping, too hot.

“Is _nothing_ sacred to you, Spragg?” Savage wanted to know, her face twisted with fury. “Hogwarts is central to the traditions of—”

“Oh yes, Hilda,” Spragg said. “And Dumbledore was a god.”

Savage leapt from her chair. “Dumbledore was a fucking _hero_ who _died_ to save us!”

“And who was there in the end?” Penelope demanded. “Who was with Dumbledore on that Tower?” 

_Severus, please_ , Dumbledore had said on that Tower, but his was not the voice that Harry heard. Instead he heard Charity Burbage, because she was right above them, and her last words had been the same. _Severus, please. Please._

“Draco Malfoy, that’s who,” said Penelope, and several people clamored to reply:

Spragg. “It wasn’t his—”

Povey. “Why can’t we just—”

Baggot. “It’s already been—”

_Severus. Please._

“Excuse me,” Harry said, standing abruptly. Professor Burbage was screaming, and yet Harry managed to push back his chair calmly, stand, and walk out of the room, leaving the memory behind, alone with them, pleading with them. He walked out of the conference chamber into what should have been fresh air, but it wasn’t; the air was still too hot. He needed to be not here.

 _Outside there is more oxygen_ , Kavika had once explained. The people who take it up are spread farther apart, and there are grass and trees and other vegetation that release it into the air as waste. Harry propelled himself through the stone corridor, pushing the brass handle on the heavy wood door, taking the three stone steps to the vestibule, another door, then outside. Outside. Fresh air. 

Outside was raining, the last of April a chill mist that washed over Harry’s skin. He wanted it in his mouth. He wanted it all the way inside him, until his chest was full of cool gray nothing, soft and muted, nothing.

Cloisters ran along the inner courtyard of Bickford-Buckley Hall, stone benches interspersed between the colonnades, but Harry chose another bench near the center of the yard. The rain was so light he almost couldn’t feel it, and here he was closer to the Timothy Tree. The bark was smooth at the base, where so many had tried and failed to scale it, and Harry felt like he could breathe the life of the wood, old and sturdy and ignorant of fleeting human lives.

Harry didn’t know how long he sat, using the techniques Kavika had given him words for: _notice where you are_. The bench was cold under him; he could feel it through his jeans. It should be wet, but he couldn’t feel that, so he put his hands on either side of his thighs to wrap around the edge of the bench and squeeze. It was stone. Porous. Not as wet as he would have thought.

 _Is there a smell?_ Harry closed his eyes: rain and dirt and leaves. Growing things. An early hint of honeysuckle.

 _What does it sound like?_ Harry strained to hear the rain, but it was too soft, though now that he listened, he could hear a _thip thip thip_ on the Timothy Tree, where the rain puddled in a leaf loosed fat drops one by one onto a leaf below.

“I thought I would find you here.”

Harry opened his eyes, and Penelope came to sit with him on the bench.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

 _I haven’t got to taste yet,_ Harry thought, but Penelope meant well. She had come to check on him. _Don’t be afraid to let people know what you’re experiencing,_ Kavika said.

“Sometimes I just feel like I need to get away,” Harry said. 

“Oh, I know,” said Penelope. “Can you believe Baggot? Spragg, you expect it, but you’d think a bloke Baggot’s age would know better.”

 _This is not away_ , Harry felt, but she was being kind. She was being kind and didn’t understand what he had said. 

“I just can’t believe this Malfoy business,” Penelope went on.

Harry squeezed the bench some more, distracting himself from the way heat began to claw into his face again, from the way breathing became difficult once more. _Don’t be afraid to let people know what you need._ “I don’t want to talk about it,” Harry said.

“Me neither.” Penelope was always pristinely put together, her hair pulled back from her face, her robes in the latest wizarding style, but though she was small her features were not delicate, and just now the wrinkle in her brow bespoke her frustration. “It’s a plate and a half of bollocks. How could the Board approve his application? And now we’re expected to look at him every day when the term starts? A Death Eater at Auror Academy. Next we’ll be saying Grindewald had a point. Aside from all of that, wasn’t he a prat to you at school? Malfoy, I mean.”

The pressure around Harry’s throat tightened. “Yes,” he said, hoping this was enough.

“I’ll bet the Board are the sort who just want to go back to the way things were before the war,” Penelope went on. “’Things used to be so good before we were so divided’; ‘remember when we all used to work together?’ and that rot. I wouldn’t be surprised if the lot of them were Concealers.”

“Mm.”

“It makes sense,” said Penelope. “The Board’s old wizard money, aristocrats—Bickford, Fudge, Pillwickle, that lot. Of course, they want to keep the status quo; taking down the secrecy wards and revealing the wizarding world to Muggles would be a disaster for them—and people like Spragg play right into their hands. Spragg thinks he’s keeping the poor innocent Muggles safe from our nasty magic ways. He doesn’t realize he’s completely buying into the underlying Concealer agenda to keep bloodlines Muggle-free.”

Harry couldn’t feel the coolness of the bench any more.

“It’s disturbing how many kids have bought into it,” said Penelope. “I understand Granger’s case about going slow and getting a plan in place before we do the Reveal, but I’m beginning to think whoever’s destroying the secrecy wards has got the right idea. Just theoretically, of course. Why not just rip the wards off? Like a bandage. At least then Concealers don’t get their way.”

“I’m not feeling well,” Harry said finally. “I think I need to go home.”

“Oh!” Penelope’s face immediately broke into an expression of concern. “Of course! Are you sick? Do you want me to call Gareth? We could—”

“No,” Harry said, standing carefully. “I just need to go home.”

“Okay,” Penelope said. “I’ll let the others know. Get some rest, all right?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, exiting the Academy grounds before he Apparated.

*

“We haven’t talked about Draco Malfoy very much,” said Kavika. She was a wide woman with greying black hair, which she usually kept tied in a messy knot at the nape of her neck.

When Harry first started coming for his appointments, he would pace the office, hands too twitchy. He’d since managed to sit down regularly in one of her over-stuffed chairs, letting the cushion press against him so that some of his movement was restricted. His hands he placed on his knees, watching them sometimes to see that they were still. 

“You mean we should talk about him,” Harry said.

“Do you want to talk about him?” said Kavika.

“Not really.”

Kavika said nothing, an unspoken commentary, and Harry sighed. Then he thought about why he didn’t want to talk about Malfoy and crossed his legs. Uncrossed them. He couldn’t move in these chairs. “Malfoy brings it all back,” Harry said finally.

“The war?”

“Yeah. That happened. So did Hogwarts.”

“Hogwarts happened.” Kavika’s voice was nothing like a stereotype, neither soft nor particularly kind. Rough with age or maybe cigarettes, there was a croaking deepness that felt real instead of clinical or sweet. “Have you talked to any of your friends about Draco joining the Academy?”

“You’re going to tell me I should.” Harry crossed his legs again.

“I’m not going to tell you anything.”

“Yeah.” Harry uncrossed them. “Neat trick.”

“It’s not a trick,” Kavika said, unnecessarily.

Pressing his lips together, Harry looked down, nodded. “I should tell them. I was going to tell them,” he added, “about our murdered Muggle Studies professor hanging above a table of Death Eaters. It just didn’t seem like a good dinner conversation.”

“Maybe save it for lunch,” Kavika said, and Harry felt himself smile. “When will you talk to them about Draco?”

Harry wanted to reach up and rub his scar on his forehead, but instead he rubbed the scar on his hand—a habit he’d developed long after either scar stopped hurting. He never used to be a fidgeter, but he thought about it now, why he was doing it. It was because he didn’t want to think about Malfoy.

So Harry thought about Malfoy. Tall. Rather inelegantly tall—gangly, bony, angles everywhere with only the dark hollows under his eyes for softness. Hair that had dulled since school, if the photos in the papers were any indication, his lips unpleasantly thin, his nose still long and sharp. Harry imagined Draco Malfoy and tried to determine how he felt about him, but all that remained in the wake of far too many feelings was exhaustion, an anger that had long since faded to indifference, and perhaps a little pity.

 _Feeling nothing doesn’t mean there’s nothing to feel_ , Kavika had once said. _Think instead what the nothingness might cover._

“There’s history,” Harry heard himself say. “Of course there’s history, but there’s important history, and then there’s . . . Draco Malfoy was nothing. In the scheme of things. He was wasn’t an enemy. He wasn’t strong enough, or important enough. He wasn’t a rival or a friend or a traitor or a murderer. He was just . . . he was—Dudley. He was Dudley, only thinner and more posh.”

“Dudley didn’t let Death Eaters into Hogwarts,” Kavika pointed out.

“Right.” Harry saw Malfoy’s gangly figure again in his mind’s eye and struggled with indifference; he must feel something. He had to feel something; Malfoy had called Hermione a Mudblood, tried to get Hagrid fired, stepped on Harry’s face, tried to murder Dumbledore. Malfoy had tried to murder Dumbledore, but when Harry about that Tower, he could only remember Snape and Albus, the Death Eaters coming up the stairs. “Malfoy doesn’t matter to me,” Harry said at last. “He’s not my responsibility.”

“What is your responsibility?”

Harry thought about what he could change, what he could influence, the power that he had. “Myself,” he said finally.

Kavika smiled. “That’s so good Harry,” she said, in her gravelly voice. “And what do you want for yourself?”

Harry thought about it. He’d been thinking about it for a long time, because this was not Kavika’s first time asking, and sometimes he said different things: peace. A different history. Sleep without the nightmares. A world without the concept of blood purity. “I want the past to stay the past,” he said finally. “I want now to be now, and for me to just—live, somehow, here and now.”

“You want to move on,” said Kavika.

“I’m trying,” said Harry.

*

Term opened on a cold day in September, when the leaves on the Timothy Tree were half bleeding into a vibrant scarlet. It started a day earlier for Level One, orientation consisting of tours of Bickford-Buckley and Leck, an overview of policies, and an introduction to the instructors and their courses. Today reporters crowded around Pallas Arch, attempting to capture photographs, perhaps, of Draco Malfoy attempting to climb the Timothy Tree. Legend said the tree would know whether the heart of a disciple was true, only allowing the most virtuous trainee to scale its branches. Few had ever done it.

Harry didn’t know whether Malfoy made the attempt. The reporters had already tried to corner him, but Harry had become good at evading them—and ignoring Malfoy, apparently. At first, Harry hadn’t even noticed Malfoy among the trainees when he introduced ADADA and Wandless Combat, only eventually becoming aware of the dull head that rose a good two inches above any other of the trainees. Still lanky and absurdly bony, Malfoy had not got any fitter. 

After Harry dismissed the initiates, Malfoy left, but a group still lingered. Harry knew why. He just didn’t want to have to deal with it.

“Is it true you defeated the Dark Lord with a disarming spell?” one of the trainees asked, inevitably. 

“I’m not taking questions,” Harry told the trainee.

“I just wanted to say, sir,” another initiate said, “I heard the admin had to send Draco Malfoy’s application up through the Board for approval, and I think it’s wrong they’ve done it. They should’ve sent him to prison, just like they should have the rest of his lot.”

The initiate was likely just eighteen, barely out of Hogwarts, stars still in his eyes over the thought of being taught by Harry Potter. _It’s okay to feel frustration,_ said Kavika. _It’s okay to have feelings._

 _I don’t have any feelings_ , Harry wanted to say. I don’t have any feelings. I don’t have any feelings. I don’t have any feelings.

“After what he did to you,” said another girl, black-haired and freckled, so young.

“Draco Malfoy wasn’t any older than him,” said another initiate, a girl with glasses and red robes. “And the war is over.”

“Draco Malfoy is a criminal,” said the first boy.

“And Auror Potter isn’t?” said the glasses girl. “I heard he cast Crucio. In fact, I heard he cast a curse on Draco Malfoy that—”

“You’re not here for stories of my school years.” Harry didn’t raise his voice, but silence usually fell when he talked anyway. “I’m not here to talk about them. I save that for my therapist.” Harry waited for the nervous laughter, which came like a slowly lapping wave, then quickly faded. “I’m here to teach you how to protect yourself. If you have questions about that, ask away. As for questions about Voldemort—”

Someone gasped. They’d probably been a year old when the Dark Lord rose; they had no good reason to fear the name.

“—if you have any question about him, or my time in school, you’re obviously more interested in becoming a historian than an Auror. I’ll talk to the Board and have you removed from my classes. You lot are onto Instructor Baggot, now,” Harry said, turning away. “Have a nice day.”

*

Harry stayed in his office until late afternoon, preparing for the next day of courses. He wanted a breath of fresh air, but Apparition was impossible within the grounds of the Academy, and orientation day was only just over. Initiates would still be hanging about, and Harry didn’t want to see them. 

First of the term, before the trainees came to know him, was always hardest. Getting an answer to a question from a famous person was a prize, a privilege, something to win, and so many people wanted to win—to win him or win against him. The problem was that Harry couldn’t even blame them. To them he was not a person; he was an icon. That was how they taught about the war in school, in the books. When were all these children meant to realize he was a human being? They didn’t mean to hurt him, and they were so young. They didn’t know what it had been like. He should allow them their curiosity. Allow them their innocence. Allow them to learn and ask and know and take from him, take from him, take from him.

Harry leaned his head against the windowpane, feeling the cool glass. _Allow yourself pain,_ Kavika said. _Allow yourself to feel hurt._ Harry wished he had a coffee.

The door thumped thrice, someone knocking. It wasn’t fair to shut them out when all they wanted was to understand. It wasn’t fair to expect them to understand he needed to be alone. It wasn’t fair to be unkind. _You don’t owe them,_ Harry remembered, just as he said, “Come in.”

The door opened to Draco Malfoy. 

Dammit.

Malfoy looked perfectly at ease, practically lounging in the doorframe, and Harry went straight back seventeen years. Draco Malfoy’s father was still on the board at Hogwarts, and Malfoy’s mother probably still sent Malfoy chocolates even in his thirties. “I know you don’t want to see me,” Malfoy said at last, his voice almost mocking as he came farther into the office.

Harry thought his expression was enough of a reply, but then again, Malfoy wasn’t looking at him. He was strolling about Harry’s office, looking at the shelves, acting as though he owned the place.

Having assessed the office, apparently, Malfoy slipped his hands in his pockets and turned to face Harry once more. “This has nothing to do with you.”

The exhaustion Harry had felt all day settled all the way down to his bones, radiating from his spine to his limbs.

“Of course, I know how it looks,” Malfoy went on. “Ex-Death Eater and wizard wunderkind meet once more, arch enemies back to school, an epic rivalry for the books. It’s poetic; it’s justice; it’s like a story. I get it. The press eats it up.” Malfoy moved to the window, on the other side of Harry, looking down on the green. “I’m not here for that. It’s not redemption, and it’s not payback.” Straightening, Malfoy turned back toward Harry. “It has nothing to do with you, or the war. I’m here to make a life. I want to move on.”

Harry stared at him.

“That’s all,” Malfoy said. “That’s what I came to say. Have you got anything?”

Harry stared at him.

“Excellent. Do you think we can manage the whole term without ever speaking to each other at all? I think we can. It’ll be fantastic. I’ll pretend you don’t exist. Have a good day,” said Malfoy, spinning on a heel. 

Before Harry could formulate a reply, Malfoy left the room, leaving Harry alone with his cool window and his thoughts.

*

“How do you feel about that? What Draco said to you?”

“About moving on?” Harry was once again ensconced in the chair in Kavika’s office, hands folded in his lap this time, lit by the warm glow of Kavika’s magic lamps. “Sounds nice.”

Kavika gave him a small smile, a twist of her dark red lips. “How is has he been in your classes?”

“So far?” About three weeks of classes had passed, and Harry thought about them. “Unimpressive.”

“Did you expect him to be impressive?”

Harry looked around the room—at the rust-coloured tapestry hanging on the wall, leading the eye to the intricately patterned rug on the floor. Everything in the office had some sort of fabric or cushion to soften it, and Harry made himself answer the question at last. “In school he was a prat, you know. You may have heard? Tried to murder my best friend, get my favorite professor fired, that sort of thing.”

Kavika raised a brow. “And this impressed you?”

Her little joke deserved a smile, and Harry wearily gave her one. “No. I guess . . . he was loud. And bossy. Malfoy . . . he called attention to himself. He doesn’t now. He’s almost . . .” Harry waved a hand. “His marks are terrible. But other than that, he’s almost . . . forgettable.”

“That surprises you?”

“Right.” Harry nodded. “It shouldn’t.”

“Why shouldn’t you be?”

“War changes you,” Harry said. “There’s no reason it shouldn’t have done, to him.”

“Harry.” Kavika seemed to hesitate. “There’s no need for you to make allowances for Draco Malfoy. Like you said—there’s no reason for you to have thought about him at all.”

Harry shook his head. “Malfoy was a child. I should have known he could change. I should have known. Maybe we could even get along. Maybe we could be best friends. I shouldn’t—”

“Don’t.”

The sadness in Kavika’s voice made Harry’s gaze snap back to her.

“You don’t need to forgive Draco Malfoy,” Kavika said.

“I know,” Harry said, startled.

“Even had he not let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, he was your childhood bully,” Kavika said. “He was cruel to you. And your friends.”

“I told you he doesn’t really matter,” Harry said.

“Harry,” Kavika said, leaning toward him, lines etched in her brow. “Do you think that _you_ don’t matter? That the pain he caused you, that the ways he hurt and scarred and scared you—that that is negligible?”

“He didn’t really hurt me,” Harry said, still a little surprised. “He wasn’t significant enough to hurt me.”

“You told me he was Dudley,” Kavika said, her voice sinking quite low, “only thinner and more posh. You’re allowed to feel the same as you did before. You’re allowed to be angry.”

“You don’t think Malfoy should have been admitted,” Harry said slowly. “To Auror Academy.”

Sitting back in her chair, Kavika said, “I’ve told you these sessions weren’t about me.” She still sounded sad. “What I think doesn’t matter.”

“Right,” Harry said, “but you think it was wrong.”

Kavika looked away. “I’m going to make coffee,” she said, standing. “Do you want your usual?”

Harry felt himself smile, even knowing she couldn’t see it. “That’s not fair.” She knew even the faint whiff of coffee threw him off any other scent.

“I don’t play fair,” Kavika said, waving her wand to grind the beans, then to move them to the copper pot and boil the water. “Does it surprise you I think he shouldn’t have been admitted? You know my political views.”

“I just didn’t know you had any about Draco Malfoy.”

“I don’t.” Kavika cast the spell to heat the water again. “Not specifically. But you know I thought the Death Eaters should have received harsher punishment.”

“Malfoy was a child,” Harry pointed out.

“You also know some of what I think the wizarding world does to children,” Kavika said, spelling the water from the pot to the cup, then bringing it by hand to Harry. “You know I wish it had been kinder to you.”

“Thank you,” Harry said.

“You don’t have to forgive Draco Malfoy,” Kavika said again, spelling coffee into her own cup, then returning to her seat facing his. “You only have to deal with him. If I had had my way,” she added, taking a sip, “you wouldn’t have to do that either.”

“If I’d had my way, I’d be dead.” Harry sipped his coffee. “I guess it’s good we don’t always get what we want.”

“No.” Kavika smiled. “It’s good _you_ don’t always. I, on the other hand . . .”

“You know,” Harry said, sipping his coffee. “Some of us are moving on. Maybe you should too.”

*

The flying field at the Academy was state of the art, complete with broom and carpet courses as well as Bludger pitchers and Snitch dispensers. Though the field was meant for trainee practice and the Defensive Riding course, Harry often flew there before teaching. Flying calmed him, clearing his mind so he was ready to face his students. They were not a particularly challenging cohort this year. As Harry had told Kavika, not even Malfoy was a problem, though he had fallen behind the other trainees. 

Harry wasn’t sure whether he should do anything about that. He didn’t exactly fancy giving Malfoy special attention, but he usually tried to help trainees who were struggling. Was Malfoy struggling? Maybe he was just being a prat. Maybe Kavika was right, and Harry shouldn’t even have to deal with him. Maybe Harry could go back to the Board and tell them Malfoy was a terrible student, that Malfoy’s application should never have been approved in the first place. He was Harry Potter; they would listen. He shouldn’t have to—

 _You can use your name_ , Kavika had told him once. _Why not? But if you use it to hide behind, one day you’ll have to hide from it as well._

Harry stayed out for longer than he should have, not thinking about Malfoy in particular, but thinking that he could get what he wanted if he demanded it. But was it right? Life had proven that getting what he wanted didn’t always make things easier. He’d got Ginny, and look how that had turned out. 

Though Harry had bundled up for his morning flying, the October morning was not as chilly as he had expected. When he finally landed, he’d broken a sweat, and it didn’t help that the halls of Bickford-Buckley were magically heated. By the time he reached south end, he’d Banished his hat, coat, scarf, shirt, even socks and trainers. He needed to be able to move for his next class, so he transfigured his jeans, leaving him only in tracksuit bottoms, vest, and silver locket—the one Ron and Hermione had given him after he had quit the Aurors.

Harry had never been all that punctual, and his thoughts while flying plus the change of clothes meant that he was most likely late—a fact that was supported by the entire class turning to look at him when he flung open the classroom door. “Sorry,” he said, half for the tardiness and half for the bang of the door. “You could have started without me,” he added. “I can make you better at wandless combat, but I can’t actually warm up anyone else but myself.”

Someone tittered—maybe because of the poor joke, or maybe because he was so obviously already warmed up; Harry could still feel sweat at his brow. The trainees turned to the warm-ups he’d taught them, however—or most of them. Malfoy stood there staring at Harry as though he’d grown a second head.

Harry’s brow raised. “Did you need special instruction, Malfoy?”

“Yes.” Malfoy swallowed quickly. “Special instruction. You can—specially instruct me.”

“In warm-ups?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said again. “Warm-ups. I’m—cold.”

“Not funny.” Harry turned away, because he had been beginning to think that Kavika was right—maybe Malfoy had moved on. Maybe he wouldn’t be a prat. Maybe pigs would fly, and blood purity zealots would move to Antartica. Ignoring Malfoy, Harry began warm-ups of his own.

The six weeks of Wandless Combat focused on disarmament. Today was the first day of hand-to-hand; after that would be a unit on wandless magic, and in the last quarter, they would combine hand-to-hand with wandless magic to create strong defense in situations where a wand could not be used. From the beginning, however, Harry had stressed the importance of warm-ups—partly because wizards just weren’t used to it. When you could use magic for everything, the importance of one’s physical body sometimes got forgot.

“All right,” Harry said, once warm-ups were over. “Everyone pair up. These will be your sparring partners for the next few weeks, so get cozy.”

The trainees began to move—Bennet and Wan forming a pair, Moskowitz and Fairchild, Achar and Fuentes, all the expected pairs—except for Malfoy, who was still just standing about. He looked like he might not have moved since Harry had told him to warm-up. His eyes were still fixed on Harry.

“Malfoy,” Harry called. “Get to it.”

“Right.” Seeming to snap out of it, Malfoy looked about, and yet did not seem inclined at all to move. His expression seemed almost lost. He obviously had not been listening, and Gibson, Adebayo, Hasan and Zane had already found partners. That left Yi and Ewing, who found each other.

“Where’s Travers?” called Harry.

“Sick,” Achar answered. “I think I heard a Whoop-whoop got him.”

Whoop-whoops were pretty nasty, and if that were true, they would have an odd number for at least a few weeks. Harry did what he would have done for any of his other trainees. “All right, Malfoy,” he said, turning back to him. “You’re with me.”

“No, I’m not,” Malfoy said immediately.

For a moment, Harry was caught off guard, and then a sudden silence fell. The eyes of the other trainees turned to them—Harry could always feel it, the way he could always feel when the tension in the room became about him being Harry Potter instead of an instructor, the way everyone watched to see what he would do in a way they watched no one else. He remembered what Malfoy had said: _an epic rivalry for the books._

There were books. There were lots and lots of books about Harry Potter, and Draco Malfoy was barely a footnote in most of them. “Do you want to be in this class?” Harry asked, quite gently. 

“You can’t kick me out,” Malfoy said, his voice still quick. “I was admitted. My application was approved.”

“I didn’t say anything about kicking you out,” Harry said, his tone still slow and measured. “I asked if you wanted to be here.”

“Of course. Yes. I applied.”

Harry nodded at the spot beside him, in front of the class.

“Oh, there,” Malfoy said, as though he had only just now understood that he was to be Harry’s sparring partner. “Sure, I can go there,” Malfoy went on easily, slipping his hands into the pockets of his track bottoms, meandering in Harry’s direction. “I can be your partner, if no one chose you. I mean, I can see why no one would choose you.” Malfoy glanced around the class, still meandering, voice almost lazy. His gaze went back to Harry. “You’re so—wouldn’t want to seem like a teacher’s pet. No one wants that. I never wanted that. Where do I stand? Here? Okay.” Without waiting for an answer, Malfoy claimed the spot next to Harry, turning to face the class as though to thank his audience.

 _I thought you wanted to move on,_ Harry wanted to say, but he ignored Malfoy, instead turning to the class. “I’m going to demonstrate a series of holds,” he said, “and then we’ll work on how to get someone into those holds. That way, you know where you want to get at the end of each bout. Okay, Malfoy,” Harry said, turning back to him. “Keep your body nice and loose for this.”

“Not a problem,” Malfoy quipped. “My body is always nice.”

“Sure,” Harry said, because Malfoy’s body was obviously not very nice at all. “Remember our rules for the class—never move against your partner without being quite sure they’re ready; never touch them without letting them know what you’re about to do. Okay, Malfoy,” Harry said again. “I’m going to come behind you and put an arm around you, and then my other arm is going to come around your neck. Is that okay?”

A long pause ensued. Malfoy didn’t seem to be paying attention.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, trying not to sound impatient.

“Hm?”

“Is that okay?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s perfect. Just what I’ve always wanted. I’m—” Malfoy seemed about to make another quip, then seemed to think better of it. Drawing himself up, squaring his shoulders, he said only, “I’m ready.”

“All right.” Carefully, telegraphing his movements, Harry stepped behind Malfoy, then wrapped put his hand on Malfoy’s waist to slide his arm around him.

Malfoy jumped, and Harry immediately let go. “Sorry,” Malfoy said quickly, moving back into Harry’s space. “You can—you can do it.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asked.

“Yes. I’m—yes.”

Perhaps Malfoy was thinking about their “epic rivalry,” or whatever nonsense, or perhaps Malfoy was actually afraid. Indeed, Malfoy had been quite terrified of Harry more than several times in school. Either way, Harry didn’t want to cause a scene. Still standing behind him, Harry kept his voice low and soft, just for Malfoy’s ear. “Malfoy, are you—”

“It’s my reflexes,” Malfoy said loudly. “Can’t control them. They’re too fast. Lightning quick.”

“Sure,” Harry said again, expelling a breath.

Malfoy shuddered—probably didn’t want Potter-breath on him, or similar rot; it was amazing how all the sudden being around Malfoy made Harry feel as though nothing at all had changed since school. So much for ignoring each other. “I’m going to put my arm around you,” Harry reminded him again.

“Yep,” Malfoy said, as Harry’s hand slid around his waist. Malfoy fell silent after that, strikingly stiff against Harry’s arm and chest.

“Jesus, Malfoy,” Harry muttered. “I’m not going to curse you.”

“Mm,” Malfoy said but did not relax a fraction.

“Now I’m going to put my other about your neck,” Harry said, then spoke over Malfoy’s shoulder to the class. “Remind your partner what you’re going to do when you’re going slow. When you practice, everything should feel comfortable. Malfoy,” Harry added, very softly, “relax.”

“I’m . . .” _Relaxed_ , Malfoy was going to say. Harry could practically taste the word from behind Malfoy, along Malfoy’s jaw, in Malfoy’s chest, but Malfoy was breathing too hard to say it. Harry let him go.

“That was a simple chokehold,” Harry told the class. “Thanks for helping demonstrate.” Harry turned to Achar and Fuentes, who were working near the front. “Achar, can you pair up with Malfoy? Fuentes, you can demo our next hold.”

“My reflexes are too fast,” Malfoy told the class loudly. “And I’m too tall. That’s something for the history books—Auror Potter likes shorter partners. You heard it from me first.”

“I like all kinds of partners,” Harry told Malfoy flatly. “That’s already in the history books.”

A few of the trainees tittered nervously, which was expected. Harry’s fling with Andre Ricci had been all over the news when it had happened. Harry hadn’t really thought of himself as bisexual when it had been going on. He hadn’t really been thinking of anything except for the fact that Andre was the first person since Ginny that he had wanted, but the press had had quite the day defining him, and Harry supposed the definition worked.

The laughter quickly died, and Harry turned to Fuentes. “We’re going to do an armbar next. Are you ready, Fuentes?”

Harry demonstrated the next hold with Fuentes, who next to Malfoy was a star pupil. Meanwhile, Malfoy lagged behind in the practice set, standing there staring before Achar waved a hand in front of Malfoy’s face to get his attention. Harry recalled the way Malfoy had stared at him when Harry had walked in, the way Malfoy was staring now. What if Malfoy still hated him, and that was all this was? It made sense. If Harry had thought Malfoy worth the effort, Harry would have hated him right back.

Harry demonstrated the rest of the holds with Fuentes, then stopped Malfoy before he left for his next class. “See me during office hours,” Harry told Malfoy.

“I’m seeing you right now,” Malfoy said, but Harry was already walking away.

*

Auror Gareth Newcastle had come to chat during Harry’s office hours, wanting to hear Harry’s thoughts on the new developments surrounding the Reveal, which by now was a bit like chatting about the weather. Hermione had made some advancements on the legislation, however, devising a strategy to better ease Muggle and Magical relations during the transition, and now they were waiting once again to hear whether Number Ten agreed. “I’m headed for a coffee,” Gareth said. “Want to come with?”

“I’ve got a student coming,” Harry said, glancing at the clock. His office hours were almost over, and Malfoy still hadn’t come.

“I’ll pick you one up,” Gareth said, just as a knock came at the door.

“Oh, would you?” Harry said. “Come in.”

“What’ll you have?” Gareth said, as Malfoy opened the door.

“Are you going with Penelope?” Harry asked. “She knows my favorite.”

“She’s out today, mate,” said Gareth, while Malfoy slipped his hands in his pockets and swaggered inside.

“Yes, Malfoy, come in, sorry,” Harry said, turning back to Gareth. “It’s a flat white, with an extra shot, and then a small sprinkle of cinnamon.”

“Got it,” said Gareth. “Later, Harry.”

“I’ll take a cortado,” said Malfoy. “Go to La Reve. It’s the best.”

“Slate is better,” said Harry.

Malfoy sniffed. “Their crumpets are terrible.”

“La Reve’s milk is too sweet,” Harry said.

“Get the oat milk,” Malfoy said.

Gareth was looking between them. “Er. I’m going to Costa? It’s closest.”

“If you must,” Malfoy said flinging himself into the chair before Harry’s desk.

Laughing at him, Gareth turned to go. “Close the door,” Harry told him, and Gareth left them alone.

Malfoy had changed into his usual attire, which consisted of finely tailored wizard robes that looked like they were from the sixteenth century. The one today was a deep green with a high collar and lots and lots of laces. It would have looked very nice on someone who didn’t have Draco Malfoy’s unfortunate face. “You wanted to see me?” Malfoy said lazily.

“Yeah.” Harry looked over at him. “You said you wanted to move on.”

“That’s right.” 

“Malfoy . . .” Harry waited, because Malfoy had to know why he was here, but Malfoy had fixed his gaze on the Veritascope on Harry’s desk, leaning over to look at it. “You’re failing my course,” Harry said.

“Only one?” Malfoy said, barely looking up at him. “Better than I thought.”

“No, you’re failing both of them.”

“Well, at least I can correctly assess my progress.”

“Malfoy, come off it; don’t touch that.” Harry swatted at Malfoy’s hand, which was reaching out to poke the scope.

“Why, is it ticklish?”

“Why, are you?” Harry said, before he could stop himself.

“Yes.” Sitting up again, Malfoy gave an arrogant little roll of his shoulders. “I bet you’d like to know where.”

“I would not like to know where.”

“You’re talking about earlier today,” Malfoy said.

“I’m talking about the fact that you’re failing my classes.”

“We have chemistry.”

“What?” Harry said, appalled.

“Don’t deny it.”

“Chemistry?”

“We have it.”

“Malfoy—”

“I know it’s strange. Bitter adversaries. Dire foes. To come back together and feel this—”

“You weren’t my adversary,” Harry said.

“Well, not _now_ , but—”

“No,” Harry said slowly. “Malfoy, you were never my adversary. You were . . . an irritant. Someone who got in my way. You fight an adversary, Malfoy. I never even needed to fight you. You just—cried in the the girls’ toilet and ran away when you were frightened.”

“Right.” Malfoy stood up, turning away. “Almost forgot about that.” He wandered away a step or two, and Harry let him, until Malfoy turned back suddenly. “Not even the bitter part? Can we at least say we were—acrimonious acquaintances?”

Harry just looked at him. “Do you need a name for our new superhero team? Because I’m not sure it really matters all that much.”

Malfoy shrugged, a fluid movement. “You’re the one who picked apart my language.”

“Malfoy, you said we had chemistry.”

Malfoy stared at him, long and unblinking, and Harry was a little surprised at how intense that was, considering Malfoy wasn’t an adversary or anything else he apparently aspired to. “My mistake,” Malfoy said suddenly, breaking the strange spell. “Must’ve been something I drank. The cold weather. Touch of the Whoop-whoop.”

Harry raised a brow. “You think you have Whoop-whoop?”

“No. Maybe. I could. What about you?”

Harry looked at him again—Malfoy’s pale, plain face, his gangly figure. “You don’t pay attention in class,” Harry finally said. “Every time I tried to instruct you today, you ignored me or got jumpy; you don’t—”

“I do many things,” Malfoy said lazily. “Ignoring you isn’t one of them.”

“You don’t study,” Harry went on. “You don’t practice. You never speak up in class—”

“You want me to speak up in class?”

“You seem like you don’t even want to be here,” Harry said, “so it’s left me asking—why _are_ you here? You said you want to move on, but with all this—chemistry, or whatever it is—it seems like it’s just holding you back.”

“I practice.”

“What?”

“I practice a lot. I practice all the time.”

Harry frowned. “I’m not seeing evidence of it.”

“Want me to record it? Want to look in my Penseive? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said, still quite patient. “You can’t even cast a Patronus.”

Malfoy flinched. “I’m sorry we can’t all master Dark Arts at young ages and faff about killing Dark Lords when we were seventeen.”

“A Patronus isn’t a Dark Art. And you could have helped.”

“At least my mother is alive,” Malfoy said, lifting his chin.

“Drop out,” Harry said.

Malfoy blinked. “Pardon?”

“Just drop out,” Harry said. “You’re obviously not interested, and I’m not going to pass you. You won’t graduate to Level Two anyway, so drop out now. While you’re ahead.”

“Doesn’t sound like I’m ahead, according to you.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said softly. “I’m not your enemy. I never was. I was trying to help you. I was always trying to help you. I still am.”

“Oh, yes, that time you murdered me in the bathroom was very helpful.”

“I didn’t murder you,” Harry said. “I never tried to murder anyone. Remember?”

“I want to be here,” Malfoy said.

Harry sighed. “I can’t force you to leave.”

“Yes, you can,” Malfoy said quietly. “You’re Harry Potter. You could crush me under your big toe, and no one would care.”

“Your father would,” Harry pointed out.

“Yes.” Sniffing, Malfoy turned away. “Father.”

“All right,” Harry told him. “Well, I’m not _going_ to force you to leave. But maybe it’s time you took a moment and thought about what you really want. Maybe you’ll find you—”

“I think about what I want. I think about what I want all the time.” Malfoy turned back to stare at him again, that unnerving, unblinking stare. “There’s not a minute of any day goes by when I don’t think about what I want and how badly I want it.”

“Fine.” Feeling weary, Harry stood up, turning to the window so he wouldn’t have to look at Malfoy’s exhausting face. “You know what you want. That’s good. But maybe it’s time you start working for it, instead of expecting it to be handed to you like you’re used to.”

Silence from behind him, then, “Is that all?”

Harry sighed again. “Yes, Malfoy. That’s all.”

Malfoy said nothing more, and the door only made a soft click to signify he had gone. Harry could think of nothing he wanted more than a shower, as if hot water could make his exhaustion slip away, and stop him from remembering Hogwarts—how it felt to quarrel with Malfoy in the corridors. The blood dripping down the stones, students turned to stones as well, the Inquisition Squad on patrol, the sickly stench of Snape’s classroom, the warmth of Dumbledore’s office. Dumbledore and death, so many dead.

Remus Lupin wandered the halls of Hogwarts, grey and generally genial. He had always been so gentle, offering chocolate, but he knew he was a ghost now and that the only chocolate he could hold was not real. _I’ll fade away when Teddy’s old enough_ , the ghost had said, but Harry was beginning to think that “old enough” might be never.

 _Ghosts can never learn anything new_ , Luna had told him once. _They don’t know to stop if something changes. They’re just stuck in the same place, doing the same things, over and over and over. Ghosts don’t rest,_ she’d said. _They haunt._

Harry wasn’t haunted. He could rest. He was allowed to rest.

*

Visits to Kavika always started out pleasant enough—she made coffee or gave Harry a biscuit. He asked about her daughter; she asked about Hermione and Ron, Rose and Hugo. They talked about the weather and the World Cup, and Fortescue’s new flavor. Then she would settle in and say something like, “Any flashbacks, lately?” so casually, as though flashbacks were another flavor of ice cream. 

Harry shifted brought his hands up to fidget, then made himself put them back on his knees. 

“Have some Magbrick,” Kavika said, holding out a handful.

Magbricks attached magically, so you could build impossible things with them, and sometimes Kavika gave them to him to occupy his hands. “Coffee works better,” Harry said, taking the blocks.

“I try not to enable your addiction.”

Harry glanced up at her. “Or yours?”

“I’m a lost cause.” Smiling, she waited strategically while he pulled the blocks all apart. “Flashbacks?” she said, once they were hovering in a line above his lap.

Maybe he could build a castle. Sighing, Harry waved the blocks away. “I keep thinking about Hogwarts.”

“More than usual?”

“A little.”

“Because of Draco?”

Harry had told her about the conversation he’d had with Malfoy in his office a few weeks ago, when Harry had tried to convince Malfoy to drop out. “I suppose,” Harry said. “He hasn’t done anything.”

“He did plenty to you.”

“I mean, anything new,” Harry said.

“He doesn’t have to do anything new to bother you, Harry,” Kavika said.

The Tiffany lamp on the table cast a magic yellow glow over Kavika’s face, and Harry didn’t want to look at her, her wide mouth, her large, dark eyes. Outside the fire-orange of November leaves stuck to the windowpanes by means of steady rivulets of rain, slowly dripping down to the still. For a while, Harry watched drops trace each other over the glass, sliding like tears over the path of a glass cheek. “I know I’m allowed to be bothered. And angry. I know I’ve been hurt. I know it’s okay not to forgive those who did the hurting. But I just don’t . . . I don’t want to deal with it anymore. I want to move on.”

“That’s understandable,” said Kavika. 

“And I don’t want to just keep _saying_ I want to move on,” Harry said, his voice suddenly louder. “I want to _be_ moved on. He’s not _important_ to me. To my life. I don’t care. I want to not care.”

“You can’t.”

“Yeah. Right. Because I haven’t dealt with my trauma, or whatever?” Harry pushed himself out of the chair. “So what, if I just deal with it, it would go away?”

“It’s not ever going to go away,” Kavika said in her low rasping voice. “You know this. I’m very sorry, Harry.”

“Yeah.” Harry went over to the window, leaning his forehead on it to feel the cool glass. “Maybe I should just get rid of him. Malfoy. I could. I wouldn’t ever have to see him.”

“You could,” Kavika agreed.

“Like that,” Harry said, straightening, pulling his head from the window. “That right there. I mean, aren’t you tired of having this conversation? Over and over?”

“You mean you saying you could do something because you’re Harry Potter?”

“And you saying I can use my name, but I shouldn’t use it to hide behind—the same thing, over and over? Don’t you get exhausted? Don’t you wish I would either do something about it, or stop complaining?”

“Do I wish you felt better? That you didn’t have the flashbacks, or trouble sleeping, that you never had attacks, that you had never tried to kill yourself? Yes.” Kavika could be so still sometimes, like an anchor. “But you’re my patient, Harry. You wouldn’t be here if those things had never happened to you. It doesn’t bother me because your conversation annoys me. It bothers me because you are my friend, and things that hurt you also hurt me.”

“I don’t want to hurt anybody.” Harry looked out the window, where the sun was slowly setting somewhere, invisible in the already grey light. “I just wanted to live my life. Like anybody else.”

Kavika stood, coming to stand with him at the window. “Let’s do the exercise. Pretend you did get Draco removed from the Academy. You go to the Board. You tell them about his poor performance. Perhaps you even tell them of your discomfort.”

Harry closed his eyes. 

Kavika went on. “They deliberate,” she said. “Perhaps they will take their time. Perhaps a week, perhaps longer. Say a fortnight. After that time, you get a Floo. They’ve agreed to grant your request. Draco Malfoy is removed. The next day you go to class. Draco isn’t there. How do you feel?”

A wave of relief. Then a knot in his stomach.

Harry opened his eyes. “Like I’m going to sick up.”

Kavika nodded. “Very well. Move forward. You teach a week of classes, no Draco. A month. How do you feel at the end of the day? Are you thinking about what you did? Are you reminded of it? What about the other trainees—will they react?”

Harry thought about it, unable to imagine them.

“Will they miss him?” Kavika asked.

Slowly, Harry shook his head. “No. He doesn’t—I don’t think he has friends. Not there, at any rate.”

“And will the trainees ask you where he went?”

“No,” Harry said again. “I told them—well, you know what I told them. At the beginning of term. I’d have them removed if they asked about him.”

“Oh,” said Kavika. “I thought you said you’d have them removed if they spoke of your years at school. During the war.”

“Right, but it . . . well.” Harry his fingers over the scar on his hand, wishing for the blocks again. “I, er. May have scared them a little.” He looked at her with chagrin. “Or a lot. They’re all—they hold their breaths whenever I call on Malfoy in class. Or when he says anything. Or if I say his name.”

Kavika didn’t seem surprised. “And would that stop if you had him removed?”

“Well. I wouldn’t call on him in class.” Kavika smiled at his poor joke but did not speak. Harry glanced down at his hands. “It would happen less. But probably because they’d all assume I’d murdered him.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Amused? Considering the times Malfoy tried to kill _me_.”

“Yes,” Kavika said gently. “And how it will make you feel in the moment? With all your students assuming you’ve done something terrible?”

“It shouldn’t matter what they assume.”

“I’m not asking how you should feel,” Kavika said. “I’m asking how you would feel.”

Harry looked up at her again, her round face, gorgeous skin, her dark eyes wreathed by her dark lashes. “Like I had done something terrible.”

“And would you also feel relieved?”

Harry rubbed his fist again. “At first.”

“And later?”

“But I shouldn’t feel guilty,” Harry said. “You said it yourself; he was a bully; he let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. He was a—he’s just a—he’s a _prat_.”

“You shouldn’t feel guilty. He was a prat. You shouldn’t have to forgive a person who did those things. You shouldn’t have to teach him either. Now. How would using your name to have him removed make you feel?”

The rain dripped down the windowpanes. “Like a coward,” Harry finally said.

“And does the relief of having him gone outweigh how bad it could also make you feel?”

One little droplet on the window seemed stuck—going sideways instead of down, then pausing, as though unable to slide against the glass with all the rest of them. Harry watched it until another drop finally joined it, pulling it down to the stone still below. At last he turned back to Kavika.

“Want some coffee?” she said.

“I thought you didn’t want to feed my addiction.”

“But I do want to feed mine,” she said, “and drinking it in front of you would just be cruel.”

“Thanks for that,” Harry said, finally moving away from the window.

*

A few weeks later, after ADADA, Harry asked Malfoy to stay behind again.

“Yippee,” Malfoy said, his affect absolutely flat. “Do I get another very special visit to your office? Another threat to remove me from Academy? I’m that distracting, am I?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

Malfoy brightened, which softened him somewhat, making him look almost pleasant.

“Malfoy, you let that Dementor loose. It almost Kissed five trainees.”

“It attacked me,” Malfoy said quickly. 

“Of course it attacked you,” Harry said. “Dementors attacked the class; it was the point of today’s lesson.”

“Keeping unauthorized Dementors is against Wizard law.” Malfoy still spoke fast, as though he had all his defenses lined up, in order.

“Malfoy,” Harry said again, feeling a bit exasperated, “it’s authorized. The Academy authorized it. You think I’m toting about illegal Dementors?”

“Maybe. You like illegal things.”

Harry just gave him a look.

“Wand slipped,” Malfoy said in that light, quick way. “Travers distracted me. Are you sure that kid is all right? Politically, I mean. I think he’s a purist.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said, wearily now. “ _You’re_ a purist.”

“How could you?” Malfoy feigned offence. “I thought you’d noticed that I changed.”

“And that’s why your dad contributes so much of the Malfoy fortune to Concealment?”

Malfoy put his nose in the air. “I’m not responsible for my father.”

“That’s it?”

The nose came down. “Pardon?”

“You’re not going to tell me you’re a Concealer so we can protect the precious non-magical people?”

“Hm.” Putting his head to the side, Malfoy appeared to actually consider this. “No.”

Harry didn’t really understand. Every time he thought he could have a normal conversation with Malfoy, Malfoy twisted it into some sort of schoolroom spat, dredging up the past as though it was the only realm in which he was comfortable. “You need to learn how to cast a Patronus,” Harry told him.

“I know how to do it.” The chin went back up.

“And yet you’ve never done it.”

Malfoy looked away.

“I’m not picking on you,” Harry said softly. “Trainees need to be able to cast one. It’s 101.”

“So fail me.” Malfoy shrugged. “You already said you were going to.”

“Yeah, well.” Sighing, Harry walked around to the desk where his schedule book was. “I don’t usually fail students without at least helping them try to achieve success.”

“Mm,” Malfoy purred, moving toward the desk as well. “Know what would really help me _achieve success_? Maybe give me a few happy memories, Potter. Not all of us have a deep well to draw them from.”

Harry looked up from his schedule. “I should think making me fall off my broom third year gives you all the happy memories you need.”

Malfoy, who had been stalking toward him, stopped dead. “You think that gives me happy memories?”

Shrugging, Harry suggested, “Or maybe the time you stepped on my face?”

Malfoy flinched. 

“Calling Hermione names, maybe? That didn’t give you pleasure?”

“I don’t know.” Malfoy tilted his head. “Is reminding me of—all that—is that giving you pleasure?”

“All right.” Harry nodded at him. “You changed. Good for you. Am I supposed to forget it ever happened?”

“Of course not,” Malfoy said easily. “Throw it in my face any time you want. Rub it in. Want me to lie down? You can step on me too.”

“I don’t want to step on you, Malfoy.”

“Don’t you?”

“No! Why can’t you just—” Harry broke off suddenly, feeling the heat begin to rise in his face, that tell-tale feeling like he couldn’t breathe. _Notice where you are._ Looking around, he saw the classroom. It wasn’t Hogwarts. It wasn’t Hogwarts.

“Potter?” Malfoy’s voice was soft.

“I don’t want to step on you,” Harry said, his voice equally soft. “I’m just . . .” _Don’t be afraid to tell people how you feel._ “This is hard for me. You and I—it’s hard for me. After what you did to me. To people I love. After what you did at Hogwarts, and in the war.”

Malfoy stared at him, that long, unblinking stare. “I know,” he said, nothing in his face moving besides those thin lips. He didn’t even blink.

“I’m trying,” Harry said.

“You don’t have to.” Malfoy’s voice was as light and quick as ever. “You shouldn’t have to. I was the one that—” Finally, he looked away. “I’ll go. I can drop out. I thought we could—I don’t know what I was thinking. It never would have worked.” Malfoy turned neatly, slipping his hands into his pockets, heading for the door.

Harry grabbed his arm, and Malfoy stopped. Just stopped, standing there, and Harry could feel the velvet of the robe—scarlet today, as though Malfoy was playing Auror dress-up. Harry could hear Malfoy’s breathing go noisy, then remembered Malfoy was scared of him. Harry let him go. “I’m going to help you,” Harry said.

Malfoy took a moment, then turned around, squaring his shoulders. “Right,” he said. “You’re a hero, aren’t you? You’ll always be the bigger person.”

“It’s not so I can be bigger.”

“You are, though. Bigger.”

“All right,” Harry said.

“You think if you forgive me, you’ll prove how good you are? How worthy of all the accolades, all the respect?”

“Malfoy,” Harry said, still feeling weary. “I don’t forgive you.”

“Right,” Malfoy said again. “You’re ‘trying.’”

“Forgiving you isn’t what I’m trying to do.”

“Then what are you trying to do?”

“Live,” Harry said. Sometimes it felt like all he had ever been trying to do.

Malfoy stared at him again. He had a stillness about him; that was what made that stare a little preternatural, a laser focus that made Harry want to get away, and yet there was a softness in Malfoy’s eyes. They almost looked like liquid in this light. 

Harry turned away. “I’ve got Advanced Combat this afternoon. See me after, and we’ll work on the Patronus.”

Harry hadn’t been particularly interested in Malfoy’s reply. Either he would come to the practice session or he wouldn’t, but when Harry got to the door of the classroom and Malfoy hadn’t said anything, he glanced back. Malfoy was still just standing there, staring at him, the way that trainees sometimes stared at spells they had never seen before.

It made Harry feel uncomfortable again, and he left the classroom without saying anything more.

*

Trainees had assigned pegs upon which to hang their bags and things, but when Malfoy appeared, hovering by the door as Harry’s students filed out of Advanced Combat, he had a satchel with him. He stayed by the door as the last of the trainees left, looking strangely wide-eyed. “We’re not going to do the practice with the Dementors,” Harry called out, taking off his vest to wipe his face of sweat. “You can come inside the room.”

The training room was long and open, with wood floors and mirrors along one side, which were helpful for correcting stances and demonstrating wand motions. “Well, of course,” Malfoy said, suddenly dropping his bag by the door and coming in farther. “If you want to do it naked; that’s fine. Nudity doesn’t bother me.” He sniffed. “It’s good for you.”

“Nudity?” Harry glanced at himself incredulously in the mirror. He’d intended to Banish the sweat from the vest and put it back on, but just for that, he’d leave it off. “Because I don’t dress like a nun?”

“Magical nuns are very powerful,” Malfoy said primly, looking more than ever like a nun in his high collar.

“All right. Let’s get started.” Summoning his wand, Harry took a solid stance. They should have learned spell-casting stances at Hogwarts, but their DADA teachers had for the most part not been exactly stellar, and Harry had retaught the stances at the beginning of both of his classes. Balance was more important for spell-casting than many people realized.

Drawing his wand from his sleeve, Malfoy settled into the stance as well, albeit stiffly. This was his wont in class, though Harry had noted Malfoy seemed to move around Harry’s office with perfect ease. Perhaps Malfoy was still afraid of the Dementors.

“Now, close your eyes, and look for that memory,” Harry said. “It doesn’t have to be a huge one—a little one is fine, just a time you felt nice. Maybe you got something you wanted, or someone you liked was spending time with you.” Harry waited to see evidence of the memory in Malfoy’s face, but Malfoy’s brow stayed knit, his lips pursed with a little frown. 

“Now what?” Malfoy asked, his eyes squeezed closed.

“Have you got it?” Harry asked, surprised. “The memory?”

“Yes.”

Harry looked at him for a moment longer. “No, you haven’t.”

“What? Yes, I have. I have a happy memory right here, waiting to go.”

“What is it?”

Malfoy opened his eyes. “I’m not telling you my memory, Potter.”

“Do you want to pass this class?”

Malfoy stared at him with that thin pale gaze, his thin pale lips pressed into a line. “My mother.”

“That’s good,” Harry said. “What memory with your mother?”

Malfoy opened his mouth. “Well—you wouldn’t know what it’s like, you not having had a mother of your own.”

“Right,” Harry said softly. “So. Tell me.”

Malfoy looked away, sniffing arrogantly. “I was in her lap. She’s telling me I’ll have a wonderful time at Hogwarts. I’ll make plenty of friends. I’ll do so well, and impress everyone, and—there. Is that one you wanted? Irony?”

“Malfoy,” Harry said, frowning. “Why would you choose that memory?”

“That was how it was _meant_ to be,” Malfoy said, sounding so careless that it was obvious he cared a great deal. “It _should_ have been that way.”

“Don’t choose a memory about how it was meant to be happy,” Harry said. “Choose something that was actually happy.”

“Fine. It’s not good enough for you? I’ll choose another.” Turning away, Malfoy took the stance again. “There,” he said, after a few moments. “I’ve got one.”

“That’s not it either.”

“How do you know?”

“You know what?” Harry said. “You should take your clothes off.”

Suddenly Malfoy began to cough, breaking out of his stance to cover his mouth. When he took his hand away, Harry could see Malfoy’s face had gone quite pink. “Pardon?”

“People think casting a Patronus is about intent, like an Unforgivable, or concentration, like Apparition. It’s not. It’s about letting a feeling inside of you escape and take form. To do it, you have to relax. Take that cloak off.” 

Malfoy’s eyes locked with Harry’s. Harry was sure Malfoy was going to argue, what with all his pretension toward modesty not five minutes earlier, but instead Malfoy reached for his collar, eyes still fixed on Harry’s. Slowly, he began to unlace it.

Harry rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, Malfoy. Use a spell.”

“To undress?” Malfoy feigned shock. “A Malfoy would never do anything so uncouth.”

Harry rolled his eyes again. “A Malfoy probably can’t even cast a Patronus.”

“Correction,” Malfoy said, whipping a leather lace through its tiny grommet, then beginning on the next tie. “My father can cast an excellent Patronus. It’s a swan. A magnificent swan.”

“Bully for him.”

“And my mother can cast one too,” Malfoy went on, still untying. “That’s why I know I can do it.”

“Patronuses don’t run in blood, Malfoy.”

“But mine does.” Malfoy had moved to the laces at his wrists, now. “My parents’ Patronuses match, you see. It represents their love. Their devotion to one another. Devotion resulted in me. Magic is very strong in my family, you know. I think the Dark Lord must have done something to you.”

“What?” Harry asked, having become rather mesmerized by the repetition of Malfoy’s bony fingers untying lace after lace.

“I think he did something to you,” Malfoy repeated. “You being Chosen One and all. That’s why your magic is so strong. Otherwise you wouldn’t have stood out so much. You would have been just—normal. You weren’t born exceptional.”

“And you say you’re not a purist.”

“Don’t twist my words,” Malfoy snapped. “We both know Granger’s the strongest one of us, naturally.”

“Do we?” Surprised, Harry looked up to Malfoy’s face, but Malfoy was concentrating on untying. “You know,” Harry said, shifting his weight, “this would go a lot faster if you wore less.”

“Why, Potter,” Malfoy purred.

Harry waited, but Malfoy didn’t say anything else. “And why is it uncouth to use a spell?”

“Pureblood tradition. Not a purist!” Malfoy added, as though sounding like a three-year-old in his denial could poke fun at Harry before Harry even made the accusation. “Just raised that way.”

“Right.” Turning away, Harry Banished the sweat in his vest after all, then put it back on. “Maybe Floo me next century? When you’re done taking off your clothes.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Malfoy said, his voice silky. “You know, 'this would go a lot faster' if I had help.”

“Do you do this to everyone?” Harry said, turning back to him and gesturing. “Or is it just me?”

“You’re very special, Potter.” Malfoy’s voice was soothing, now, before it went flat. “You put on your vest.”

Harry looked down at himself. “Well, if you’re going to take forever, I’ve places to be.”

“Fine.” Picking up his wand again, Malfoy cast untying spells on the remaining laces, then finally hurried out of the wizard robe to shirtsleeves and trousers beneath. “Are you happy?”

“Take that off, too,” Harry said, nodding at Malfoy’s poofy shirt. He looked like a pirate in it, the sleeves billowy and linen so light it was practically translucent.

“This is not how I imagined this moment,” Malfoy said testily, but he proceeded to take off the shirt as well, until he was down to the vest.

“Better?” Harry asked.

Malfoy put out his chin. “No.”

“Think up that happy memory.”

Malfoy was pretending to look aggrieved, but he closed his eyes, his face smoothing into an expression of concentration. Slowly, his body took the stance. Then his brow began to knit, and the frown creased his face again. “All right,” Malfoy said, opening his eyes.

“You have it?” When Malfoy nodded, Harry said, “Now think about that moment. Allow it to wash over you.”

Malfoy closed his eyes again, screwing his face up. “Okay.”

“Relax.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Who says?” Malfoy demanded.

“I do,” Harry said. “I just said it.”

“Who made you the authority on relaxation?”

“The Academy,” Harry said. “When they hired me. Also, when I became one of the youngest wizards to cast a Patronus.”

“Show-off.”

Harry swallowed a sigh. “I’m going to come up behind you. Is that all right?”

“Sure.” Malfoy sniffed. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Just for a moment,” Harry soothed. “I’m going to touch your shoulders. Here,” he said, gently putting his hands on Malfoy’s mostly bare shoulders. “They’re up near your ears. See if you can relax enough to drop them.”

Malfoy took a quick breath. Then another, and another, but finally, the shoulders came down. “Good,” Harry said, keeping his hands on them. “Keep them here. Now think about that memory. Don’t just concentrate on it with your mind—let it into your body. Let it enter you. Let it fill you. Let it surround you, become a part of you, so you’re living inside of it, and it’s living inside of you.”

Malfoy’s breath was becoming faster and faster, and Harry remembered the demonstration for Wandless Combat, how Malfoy had been afraid of him. Harry moved away, and Malfoy’s shoulders immediately shot up again as he moved out of the stance completely.

“Shoulders down,” Harry said. “It will help with your breathing too.”

“Could you . . . ?” Delicately, Malfoy’s tongue swiped across his upper lip. He was flushed right down into his white vest; he must be sweating. It wasn’t any wonder, with that heavy robe he had been wearing. “Um, could you—show me again?”

“Show you what?” 

“Shoulders. It helped to—feel what you meant.”

Harry eyed him, suspecting Malfoy was playing some sort of trick, but at the same time, Harry remembered the breathing exercises he used to do, placing his hands behind his neck so his arms would pull down on his shoulders. He’d helped other students physically before, showing them stances, helping them get the correct posture, and Harry had decided to treat Malfoy like any other student. He’d decided to forget the collective shite of their past, because that had seemed the best way to move on. He just hadn’t thought Malfoy was going to be such a needy student.

“All right,” Harry said, swallowing another sigh and stepping back toward Malfoy. Harry’s hands settled on Malfoy’s shoulders, and Malfoy took a swift breath, but then made his shoulders drop down.

“And can you, er . . .” Malfoy hesitated. “Can you tell me again? What to do. With the memory. I think it—it helped.”

“All right,” Harry said, because Malfoy sounded earnest, almost vulnerable, both of which made it easy to forget that he was Malfoy. “Pretend the memory could travel down from your head to your heart, then pretend it could radiate from there, and you could feel it. Spreading through your chest. Your arms. Your legs. It can be clean and light—maybe if your memory is joyful. Or it can be warm and heavy, if your memory is soft and comforting. Try to feel it in every part of you, right down to the tip of your wand. All right. Take your stance.”

Almost as though in a trance, Malfoy slowly moved into the stance. The point was relaxation but not to forget everything you’d ever been taught, which was what Malfoy was apparently doing.

“Spread your legs, Malfoy,” Harry reminded him.

Malfoy made a little whining sound.

“Sorry,” Harry said, for distracting him, but Malfoy corrected himself, lifting his wand, elegant and perfect for the spell. “That’s it,” Harry said, because over the years, he’d learned the best ways to help a student succeed. “You’ve got this. You can do it.”

“Say it again,” Malfoy breathed.

“Don’t be a prat,” Harry said gently. “You can do this. I know you can.”

“Expecto Patronum.” Malfoy’s voice was a low little murmur, so Harry wasn’t quite expecting the whole room to light up with glowing silver light, almost like a firecracker. 

At last, Harry could look at it, the light resolving into a shape.

Malfoy’s Patronum was staggering. It was also . . . a stag.

The stag was powerfully built, more muscular than Harry’s Patronus, which Harry had always hoped looked like his father in Animagus form. The antlers on the stag were impressive as well, taller and thicker than the ones on Harry’s. _My parents' Patronuses match,_ Malfoy had bragged. _It represents their devotion to one another._

Snape’s Patronus had been a doe. Then again, Harry’s mum had been a woman.

 _We have chemistry_ , Malfoy had said. Harry had simply assumed that Malfoy was mocking him.

“Fuck!” Malfoy said, his voice high and wild. “Finite incantatem! Finite! Finite!”

The stag was already whooshing away, leaving the room feeling quite dim. 

_It doesn’t mean anything_ , Harry wanted to tell him, but Malfoy was already grabbing his robe, rushing for his satchel, and it was a lie. Malfoy must have known that Harry thought Malfoy’s sultry teasing was a joke; he must have counted on Harry not to take it seriously. And of course, Malfoy hadn’t been able to cast a Patronus before now.

He hadn’t known his Patronus would reveal he was in love with Harry Potter, 

“Shit,” Harry said, darkness and cold settling in over his shoulders.


	2. Chapter 2

“Draco Malfoy’s in love with you,” Hermione said.

“Or it could be a curse,” Harry suggested. “He’s cursed with a stag Patronus.”

“Right,” said Hermione. “Or he’s in love with you.”

Harry hadn’t wanted to tell them about Malfoy’s Patronus. Every time he thought about it, his stomach wrapped over itself and over itself as thought hurriedly tying a knot so tight that he couldn’t sick up, even though he wanted to.

It wasn’t rational, this nausea. Malfoy’s Patronus shouldn’t even matter. Why should it matter? Harry didn’t care, except he kept thinking of it. He kept thinking of it and then jerking back from the thought, like a curious finger from a hot cooker. Why did the thought of Malfoy’s Patronus make him feel hot and cold and like he wanted to hurry out of his own skin?

But Harry knew why. He was horribly, desperately embarrassed.

“I saved him from that Fiendfyre,” Harry suggested, waving his hand in a very poor imitation of the fyre. “Maybe he just . . . looks up to me.”

“Or he’s in love with you,” said Hermione.

Ron was trying to suppress a smile. “Got to be hard. Having so many people in love with you.”

“Yes, thanks,” Harry said, somewhat acidly. Ron knew that it _was_ hard. “Try having it be Malfoy.”

Ron’s lips pushed in deeper at the corners. “Somehow I think I’d manage.”

“He hated us,” Harry said. “He was a Death Eater. He tried to kill you!”

“Exactly,” said Ron. “See what he does with mead from me, if he was in love with me.”

“He’s not in love with you,” Hermione pointed out, in her eminent wisdom. “He’s in love with H—”

“You don’t know that,” Harry said quickly.

“—and Harry’s not going to give Malfoy any poison mead,” Hermione said. “Are you, Harry?”

“What if some other relative of his has a stag Patronus?” Harry suggested.

Ron gave Harry an almost pitying look. “Then why’d he run from the room?”

“Look, I can’t explain the interior workings of Draco bloody Malfoy,” Harry said, turning away. He was agitated. He needed to pace, except Ron and Hermione’s house was small and cluttered and had children’s books and Hermione’s scrolls everywhere. When they were in school, Harry would never have supposed she would be the messy one. “He terrorized us when we were children,” Harry went on. “Can you explain half of what he did?”

“You said he’s changed,” Hermione said.

“Obviously, he’s changed.” Turning back around, Harry flopped down onto the chair facing the couch, where Hermione was lounging and Ron was leaning forward with interest. “He’s trying to be an Auror, isn’t he?”

Hermione raised a brow. “Is he?”

“Oh, come off it,” Ron said, turning toward her. “You don’t think Malfoy’s got some nefarious purpose? Not after all this time.”

Hermione shrugged. “It’s not as if you get punished for it. Back Voldemort, be a party to the murder of innocents, join a mass murdering bigoted death cult—it’s all fine.”

“They won’t keep going on that way.” Ron’s voice was warm. He reached out to touch Hermione’s wrist. “The Deal will help protect people.”

Hermione’s lips quirked. “If it ever happens.”

Harry didn’t want to talk about Reveal. The whole thing made him anxious, but it was obviously important, and suddenly he noticed how tired Hermione looked. For a moment, Harry felt guilty—he shouldn’t have been so focused on his own problems, but then he remembered he hadn’t. He’d practiced flying with Rose and made a potion (badly) with Hugo and helped make supper, and only after the kids were put to bed and Hermione and Ron had asked about work had Harry told them about Malfoy. Hermione and Ron wanted to know, he reminded himself. Harry wasn’t bothering them with his problems—they had asked.

 _You’re allowed to talk about yourself. Your life is yours,_ Kavika had told him, even though once, it hadn’t been.

“How’s the Deal going?” Harry asked.

Hermione pressed her lips together in the teasing, clever little smile she gave just to him and Ron. “Don’t want to talk about how Malfoy is in love with you?”

“I want to know how the negotiations with Number Ten are going,” Harry said, not because he had to, not because they couldn’t focus on him. Now that he had thought it through, he could ask without resenting it, because he loved Hermione, and he wanted to know.

Hermione’s smile twisted. “Not good. They’re saying they have to go to the EU, now, if the Reveal happens.”

“The European Union?” Harry asked. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“It’s because of the Ministry. Right?” Ron looked to Hermione for confirmation, then turned back to Harry. “Because we don’t have the same laws.”

“This really would be so much simpler if either of you had paid any attention at all in History of Magic.” Hermione looked so Hermione in that moment that Harry found himself smiling, even though he should have felt guilty.

“Sorry.” Ron actually did look guilty, although he had the sort of face that always made him look forgivable when he was an arse. “We found someone to do our homework for us.”

“Binns was an amazing professor though,” Harry added. “He could put us to sleep even when we weren’t awake half the night saving the world.”

“You both are impossible,” said Hermione.

“We should have done the homework,” Harry agreed.

“Yes, well. I shouldn’t have done it for you, or else you’d know that when the International Statute of Secrecy went into effect, it was ostensibly about the law.”

“I thought it was because a bunch of bloody blood supremacists were upset at non-magical people marrying witches and wizards.” Ron frowned. “Non-mags were moving into magical places, inventing machines and things to do what magical people do—”

“Right,” Harry agreed, because he may have slept in Binns’s class, but he wasn’t completely ignorant. “Magical people were used to having the run of things in the Middle Ages and so on, but then—there was something about spice trade? And Magellan, or something.”

“There was an improvement in the building of ships and new trade routes through Asia that led to the Age of Exploration, which meant non-magical people were closer to having access to power previously only held by magical people. That was the real reason,” Hermione went on, “but the wizards behind the movement to conceal the Wizarding World from the non-magical weren’t about to admit they supported the Statute because they were terrified of non-mags, so they made it about law. They said that non-magical law wasn’t extensive enough to govern wizards, that they needed to have the power to create their own law—so they did.”

“The Wizard World is its own state.” Harry hadn’t even thought about it that way before. Probably very few people were thinking about it, which was why Hermione was trying so hard to get everything in place for Reveal.

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “If we do Reveal, it doesn’t just impact that UK. The Wizard World will be part of the EU.”

“ _When_ we do Reveal.” Ron looked serious. “It’s called the International Statute of Secrecy because it’s actually, surprisingly enough, international.”

“Ready or not,” Hermione said, a little bleakly. “Here we come.”

“Don’t worry, love,” Ron said, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. “2016 will be our year.” 

*

“Maybe Draco isn’t in love with you,” Kavika said at the beginning of December, a few weeks after the incident with the Patronus.

“That would be nice,” Harry said.

Kavika lifted her brows. “Perhaps the stag is a coincidence.”

“Perhaps.”

“It could mean something else entirely.”

Harry knew what she was trying to do, and it wasn’t going to work—but it was going to make him talk about Malfoy more, which maybe meant it was working after all. “It could, but it doesn’t. He was . . . flirting with me. A lot. Before then, I mean. I didn’t think he meant it.”

“Why wouldn’t he mean it?” Kavika said. “People have been in love with you before.”

“Thanks. That’s what Ron said.”

“How are you feeling?” Kavika sat on her couch, looking both poised and relaxed, comfortable in this perfect little parlour where Harry felt safe from the world. “About people being in love with you?”

“Er.” Harry crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. When he started to rub his fingers over the scar on his hand, he stopped. “The same. It hasn’t changed.”

“Do you want to discuss it again?”

Harry gave her a look, because she knew he never wanted to discuss anything again. Swallowing a sigh, he did it anyway. “They don’t actually know me. The people who fall in love with me. I mean, besides Ginny and Andre. Maybe Sarah. No, not Sarah. Fiona.”

“Does Draco know you?”

“Malfoy hates me.”

“But he’s in love with you,” Kavika pointed out.

“Not anymore. I mean, he doesn’t hate me anymore.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Confused. He’s meant to—no.” Harry pressed his hands into his knees. “You know what? He’s changed. I understand that. People are allowed to change. But the worst part is, _this_ hasn’t changed. He was always obsessed with me. Always. Why can’t he just . . . ?”

“Leave you alone?” Kavika suggested.

Harry had already thought about this. He’d thought about this too much, because Kavika had said he should first seek to acknowledge his feelings, then try to understand them. “I’m like his focus. Like he can’t interact with the rest of the world without me, like he can’t be him without—without loving or hating me, and it’s not fair. It’s not fair to me. I shouldn’t have to deal with it.”

“No,” Kavika agreed, and at least that was reassuring. “You shouldn’t. What have you done about it?”

Harry looked down. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“Has he been in your classes since the Patronus?”

“Yes.” Harry crossed his arms again. “He hasn’t—he hasn’t done anything.”

“I see,” Kavika said, in such a way that Harry looked at her rather suspiciously. “He’s said nothing? None of this flirting you mentioned?”

Harry shook his head.

“Well then, Harry.” Kavika’s rough voice was gentle. “What is there to deal with?”

“Humiliation?” Harry hazarded.

“His feelings for you humiliate you?”

“No, I mean . . .” Harry tried to think about what he felt, the nausea that tightened his stomach when he thought about Malfoy, the cold sweat of dread combined with the flames up the side of his face. “I mean, it’s—it’s embarrassing. Malfoy feeling—that way. It’s . . . mortifying.”

Kavika’s brows knit. “You’re ashamed for him.”

“I reckon so,” Harry said slowly. “Malfoy never had enough shame to begin with, I suppose.”

“And his feelings for you are shameful?”

“Yes. I mean, I could never feel what he . . . Don’t you think it’s embarrassing?”

Kavika was silent for a moment, in her still, steady way, and Harry found himself wanting reassurance, wanting someone who was not a friend from Hogwarts, not someone who had known Malfoy, to agree that this situation was unfair, that it was ridiculous. “I think that you have a kind heart,” Kavika said at last, “for pitying one who was so cruel to you.”

Harry recoiled. “I don’t pity him.”

“Don’t you?”

“Pity . . .” Harry shook his head. “I don’t care if he changed; he tortured us, in school. I mean—what did Hermione say—he was part of a racist murder death cult. His parents were as well, and what did they get? Rich. And after the war, they got richer still, and they never—they were always—they got to be a family. They live on an estate, for chrissake.”

“Draco Malfoy does not deserve pity,” Kavika agreed. “Do you pity him?”

 _No_ , Harry wanted to say. _No no no_.

“It’s all right, Harry.”

“It’s not all right!” Harry’s voice was louder than he had expected it to be. “They should have been punished! Lucius should have had to go to Azkaban!”

“Yes,” Kavika said sadly. “And how do you feel, that you still feel pity for Draco Malfoy, when all of this is true?”

“Angry! It makes me angry! He shouldn’t _get_ to—” Harry cut himself off.

Kavika’s dark eyes were already so large, but they could grow bigger when she looked sympathetic, as she did now. “What were you going to say?”

Harry blinked. “He shouldn’t get to be in love with me.”

Kavika gave a little nod. “And why didn’t you say that?”

“Because it doesn’t—it doesn’t make sense. Anyone can . . . I mean. It’s not a privilege. Being in love with me, I mean.”

“It’s a privilege to change,” Kavika said, her voice quite tender. “It’s a privilege to grow from hate into love, to become someone else. It’s a privilege to have the time and space and freedom to do it, as Draco has.”

“He should get to,” Harry said, shaking his head again. “Even if he should have been punished more than he was—even if all of them should have. Everyone should get a chance to change.”

“In society,” Kavika said. “Not in your heart. You don’t have to learn to love Draco Malfoy, Harry. You don’t even have to accept the new person that he is.”

“How nice for me,” Harry said, somewhat acidly.

“It is nice,” Kavika said. “It’s not always easy.”

“Right.” Harry took off his glasses so he could rub his eyes. “Story of my life.”

When he put his glasses back on, Kavika was smiling slightly. “The holidays are coming. How do you feel about that?”

Harry expelled a breath, relieved they weren’t talking about Malfoy anymore. “Fine.” Then he really thought about it. “Good. Teddy will be back.”

“How is he?” Kavika said.

Swallowing a sigh, Harry realized he’d got relieved about Malfoy too soon. “Still wants to be an Auror.”

“And how are you feeling about that these days?”

Harry gave her a sardonic look. “Guess.”

Kavika obviously guessed, her steady look of appraisal making Harry regret the turn of the conversation even more. He wasn’t ready to talk about Teddy being an Auror again; he’d said all he could say. “Will you talk to Teddy about it?”

Harry had said all he could say to Kavika. He hadn’t to Teddy—not yet. “Maybe,” he said, shifting in his chair.

Nodding, Kavika moved along. “And what are your holiday plans? You usually enjoy the hols, don’t you?”

“Yeah. We’re going to the Burrow. The holidays are—they’re good. They’re almost always good, since Ginny and Dean—it’s good. They’re bringing Giddeon. I think he’s two.”

“That’s good, Harry.” Kavika’s smile deepened. “That’s so good.”

“And how about you?” Harry looked down, saw that he was rubbing the scar on his hand, but thinking of something else, he didn’t think to make himself stop it. “Excited about the holiday party?”

“Always,” Kavika said, matching Harry’s falsely bright tone. “My husband’s going to spend all night trying to gin up approval for the Deal.”

“Isn’t that what he does all day?”

“And I don’t even get to have therapy.”

“You don’t have to come with him, you know,” Harry said. “Plus ones are optional.”

“And leave him to his own devices?” Smiling, Kavika shook her head. “Disaster.”

Harry smiled back. “I’ll drink with you in the corner. Ron’ll drink with us.”

“Is that where you’ll be, Harry? In the corner?”

Harry eyed her, realizing they were still in session and Kavika was still his therapist, even if they went to the same parties and had the same friends. “Not fond of crowds,” was all he said.

“I’m going to say something to you a wise man once told me,” Kavika said. “You don’t have to come.”

Harry thought about it. “It’s one of the only public appearances I make, other than graduation,” he said after a while, “and it’s not that public. Besides. I’ll have friends there. You’ll be there.”

“I’m flattered,” said Kavika, “but you know you can find other ways to see me.”

Harry thought about it some more. “I don’t have to come,” he finally said. “But I want to.”

Kavika laughed. “That makes one of us.”

*

The Ministry held its holiday gala in early December so as many people as possible could attend before they began overseas Apparating for holiday travel, but the Auror holiday party was always close to Christmas. Harry was still invited to the Ministry gala; technically, his position as an Auror instructor made him adjunct to the Ministry, but he had stopped going years ago, despising the number of reporters and pure-blood “philanthropists” who thought he was there for their personal show.

Meanwhile, the Auror party was in Cambridge, at the Academy, in the Grand Foyer at Bickford-Buckley, where the ancient chandelier hung by its charmed chains overhead, and the walls hummed with soft music for those that wanted to dance. The party was smaller and more exclusive than the Ministry gala, restricted only to Aurors, former Aurors, those attached to the Academy, as well as the guests of all of these. Harry knew just about everyone, having served as an Auror for nine years before quitting—retiring, the force still called it. That was fine. Harry was still friends with a few of them, even if Robards and his crowd were absolute tossers. 

Ron was still on the force, which was one of the main reasons Harry still wanted to come. Molly, Arthur, and Andromeda usually spent the evening with the kids, but Teddy was at a different party, and Harry saw Hermione and Ron so rarely without the children. While Harry loved Hugo and Rose, the conversation with adults was different, and sometimes he still missed the days when it was just the three of them against the world.

“Look at her,” Ron said, as he and Harry stood drinking in a corner, as Harry had promised Kavika. 

“Oh, who?” Harry said, pretending he didn’t know. Ron got this bit of a dopey smile a lot of the time when Hermione was doing something he thought impressive—leading a committee hearing. Proposing legislation. Washing Hugo’s face. Eating beans on toast. 

Just now, Hermione was talking to Greengrass and Pillwickle. They were members of the Board of Regents and the real reason Kavika was here, because Kingsley Shacklebolt would never pass up an opportunity to discuss the Reveal Deal with people that influential, no matter how boring his wife found stuffy parties. Hermione wouldn’t pass it up either. Looking past the knot of board members and politicians for Kavika, Harry at last spotted her talking to a beautiful woman in deep blue who looked a bit familiar, but Harry couldn’t place her.

“My wife.” Ron sighed.

Harry poked him in the side. “That’s not an Auror.”

Ron turned to look at Kavika and the woman in blue. “She’s a Greengrass. I think.”

“Little young,” Harry pointed out.

Ron hit him back. “Not his wife. A daughter? I think there were two. Don’t you remember Daphne?”

“I don’t remember her looking like that.” Harry finally looked away from her, back to Ron. “They bring their kids now?”

“Board.” Ron shrugged. “They can do whatever they want.”

“Oh, right. Like deny the existence of evil mass murdering wanna-be dictators then come back after the war to throw money at everyone like they were never the worst Minister in existence.” Harry knocked back rather more of his goblin gin than he should have.

“Or like bring their daughters to exclusive Ministry parties. No, wait. Look.” Ron nodded over toward the Greengrass daughter. Kavika had moved away, and—Draco Malfoy took the young woman’s arm. The holiday party was fancy dress, and Malfoy had on a cream-coloured thing that made him look like a fairy tale prince, except for the face.

Harry swallowed hard, and with that motion felt as though sudden tension sluiced out of him, leaving relief in its wake. “Oh, thank Merlin.”

Ron turned back to him. “You think him coming to the holiday party with Astoria means he’s not in love with you?”

“Er, don’t say that here, and, does it matter? At least he’s not going to . . .”

Ron raised a brow. “Throw himself at your feet and declare undying devotion?”

“Or ask me to dance,” Harry said. “And I said not to say that.”

“You really thought he would?”

“Who knows what he would do?” Harry asked, turning back to look at Ron. “He got his friends to dress up with him like Dementors just to scare me. He spent half of fourth year making badges about my—my personal odour.”

Ron leaned in for a sniff. “You smell fine to me.”

“Come off it.” Harry shoved him, feeling phenomenally better at this evidence that Malfoy was distracted—not that Harry had really expected Malfoy to do anything. Ever since the Patronus incident, Malfoy had barely spoken two words together in Harry’s classes and had barely deigned to look at him—though Malfoy’s coursework had mildly improved. 

Malfoy had been so bland, in fact, that Harry hadn’t really thought to dread him tonight, but now that Harry was here and turning back to watch Malfoy with the Greengrass girl, Harry realized that if Malfoy _were_ going to say anything or do anything—embarrassing—it would probably be tonight. Tonight was the only evening in which Harry was not an instructor to the trainees, putting them closer to peers. 

Meanwhile, Ron really had come off it, and was back to staring dreamily at his wife, who was no doubt charming the Board members on the Reveal Deal. “How do you reckon that _she_ was the one crying in the toilet during that first party at Hogwarts?” Ron asked.

“She only wanted to get away from the lot of us, I imagine,” Harry said. “We weren’t good enough for her then.”

“True, that. Toilets are only for the best.”

“And Moaning Myrtle,” Harry said.

“What if Moaning Myrtle was the life of the party, before she died?” Ron asked. “Where else can you really be alone, anyhow?”

“Er mate,” Harry said. “You do know what a toilet is for?”

“Why Harry Potter,” said a voice Harry knew well. “How wonderful to see you again.”

Beside Harry, Ron went stiff. Slowly, Harry turned. “Hullo, Fudge,” was all he said.

“How are you this evening?” Fudge asked.

“We were just speaking of a girl _Voldemort_ killed,” Ron said, still bristling. “Jolly good, as usual.” 

“Still hate me I see, Mister Weasley,” said Fudge, with his silly little ingratiating smile.

“Hate is for someone who’s worth it,” said Ron.

“I’m afraid we don’t think of you at all,” Harry said earnestly.

“Oh, you always were so clever!” Fudge’s sharp little eyes sparkled as he waved in the direction of Hermione and Shacklebolt, who were still talking to Pillwickle and Greengrass. “They have been talking of nothing but Reveal all night. I’m curious what you think of it, Auror Potter. It’s hardly—”

“Potter,” said Harry.

“Hm?”

“I’m not an Auror any more,” said Harry. 

“But you _were_ one,” Fudge said, mirroring Harry’s earlier earnestness, “and a great one. Why shouldn’t you be afforded the—”

“You were a Minister of Magic.” Harry’s voice was flat. “Why shouldn’t you be afforded the title of worst Minister on record?”

Fudge’s eyes flashed, but he put his little smile on again. “If I’m not mistaken, I still bear that title—mainly from sad people who can’t seem to remember that the war is long over. Can you imagine the idea of obliterating the Statute of Secrecy and dropping the wards to Reveal the Wizarding World to Vulnerables in the days of the Dark Lord? No, I cannot. And yet the people who are for Reveal are the same people who would—”

“How dare you?” a new voice snapped.

“Hullo, Hilda,” Ron said, turning to face Savage. “We were just going to let him go on.”

“It’s not funny,” Savage said, her face cold with fury.

“It’s a _little_ funny,” Harry said, mostly because Savage was volatile, and Harry didn’t want to do this right now.

“Nothing about this joke of a man is funny,” said Savage. “He should have gone to Azkaban!”

A few people looked over at them. Well, fuck. Spragg broke away from his date, coming in their direction. This was going to be a mess, and Harry felt his mind slowly begin to go blank.

“When speaking of those who received too light a sentence,” said Fudge, “I hardly think I merit even a mention.”

“They all merit mentions!” said Savage, still too loud.

“You condemn Former Minister Fudge’s crimes,” said Spragg, joining their party as Harry felt himself begin to float outside of it, “when the _current_ Minister for Magic supports a vote that would condemn Vulnerables to twice as much death and destruction as Voldemort could ever create?”

“The current Minister for Magic is right behind you, and his _bogeys_ are more Minister than this pillock will ever be.” Ron waved his hand at Fudge.

“The current Minister for Magic puts every Vulnerable at risk,” said Fudge.

“They’re called Muggles!” roared Savage.

“The current Minister for Magic wishes to embrace non-magical people as our sisters and brothers,” said a booming, steady voice, cutting through the small chaos. “By joining the rest of the world and being a part of it, instead of holding ourselves separate and aloof, we can better understand our neighbours. And perhaps prevent war in the future.”

“Is that it, Kingsley?” Fudge sneered. “There was another fellow who wanted the magical world to reveal itself to Vulnerables. What was his name?” Fudge pretended to look thoughtful, then snapper his fingers. “Oh, right. His name was Grindelwald.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Spragg.

“Why not?” said Greengrass, who had also joined them. “What else can come of opening our world to Muggles? We _aren’t_ equals. We’re not even the same species.”

The Minister for Magic slowly turned to look at Greengrass, Kingsley’s default grace and sombre expression making Greengrass’s pretentions toward rationality look a little ridiculous. “I take it I don’t have your vote,” said Kingsley.

“The comparison to Grindelwald was uncalled for,” said Pillwickle, “but it’s true we put Vulnerables at risk by exposing our world to them.” 

“We do,” Kingsley said, “but no greater risk than they already are if we continue to isolate ourselves from them.”

Greengrass tried to reply, but Savage yelled and Fudge yipped and Spragg began to move forward and Ron moved to intercede and more people were there and the chandelier overhead jerked on its ancient chains. Christ, it was going to fall on them. It was going to fall on them and they were all going to die.

Instead of falling, the chandelier floated above everyone, a minor Christmas miracle. 

No one seemed to notice it had been about to crash on their heads.

The shock that his Accidental Magic had almost done it—that it hadn’t done it—slammed Harry back into his body. He didn’t know where his mind had been, but now his head snapped around to find what had stopped the chandelier—instantly finding Hermione through the crowd, halfway across the room, hurrying toward him in concern but with her wand lifted up at the chandelier, still holding it aloft. 

Without looking back at it, she swished her wand, letting the chandelier fall a meter so she could catch it in a web of magic that lifted the chandelier back up while repairing the chain. Still no one in the shouting crowd around Harry seemed to notice, and Harry didn’t want them to. Slipping behind Ron, Harry escaped the knot of people—only to be faced by the rest of the holiday party, where people were all beginning to stare at the two former Ministers arguing, at Head Councillor Hermione Granger rushing to join them, at the Boy Who Lived desperate to escape.

Harry could feel how hot he was now, blood pumping desperately to escape his skin, escape, escape. He couldn’t Apparate within the Academy, and the doors were too crowded with too many people to stop him on the way. Harry just needed a minute to himself, just a minute to think and be alone and catch his breath, just a minute without anyone else, the toilet. He needed to get to the toilet, just for a minute alone.

Manoeuvring through the crowd, Harry swiftly made his way to the men’s. Then he was there, and just being there felt cooler. Tiles were always cold somehow, and it was quieter, and Harry could take off his coat. Loosen his tie. Unbutton his top buttons; breathe. The men’s had four stalls, one urinal, two sinks, mirrors above them. The mirrors looked cool too; Harry wanted to put his face against them, but he didn’t. He was already feeling much better. He just had to breathe. 

Taking off his glasses, he turned on the tap, filled his hands with water, and dipped his face in. When he stood straight again, he dried his face with a towel, put his glasses back on, and saw Draco Malfoy standing there quite still, staring.

Dread curdled in Harry’s stomach. Who knew how long Malfoy had been standing there? Harry couldn’t do this right now. He couldn’t, and he felt his skin go from hot to cold, sick with embarrassment for Malfoy.

“What do you need?” Malfoy’s voice was rapid and low. “Tell me, and I’ll give it to you.”

“Get out,” Harry said.

Malfoy took a big breath. “Yes,” he said, without expelling it. Turning on his heel, he left the men’s, and Harry waited, as if holding the breath Malfoy had taken.

Was it really going to be that easy?

But Malfoy didn’t come back, and after a moment, Harry let himself breathe again. Well. Well, that hadn’t been as awful as he had felt so sure it would be. That had been almost—easy. Maybe Malfoy hadn’t even followed him into the men’s; maybe he’d just had to use the toilet. Maybe no one had noticed Harry escaping—except Hermione, and probably Ron, and they had seen him like this before anyway. They knew what to do. They gave him his time alone. Sometimes they stayed close and brought him water, but they listened to what he said he needed and didn’t do what they thought he needed instead. They didn’t touch him. They didn’t try to tell him he would be okay.

He should have some water. He should wash his face again. He should go back out.

After washing his face a second time, Harry buttoned his buttons. Retied his tie. He looked mostly normal. No one would know he’d lost control of his magic, or that he’d had to go to the toilet to be alone and calm down. Maybe Kavika would know. Probably Kavika would know. Harry would be fine. He could pretend everything was normal, and he didn’t like to pretend, but Harry _wanted_ things to be normal. He wanted to be able to handle this. He wanted not to freak out when people crowded him and fought and yelled about battles Harry wished could end forever. He should go back out and pretend he was okay.

He wasn’t ready.

Maybe he would just wait until someone else came in to use the toilet. When someone else came in to use the toilet, he could pretend he was washing his hands, then dry them, then leave.

No one else came in to use the toilet.

Harry drank some water. Attempted to use his wand on his hair. Looked at himself in the mirror—a non-magical suit. Ginny had said he looked good in them. They were easier than wizard robes, which always seemed to have some fussy pure-blood tailor wanting to measure him. Non-mags had a thing where you could send them measurements and they sent you clothes that fit. It was brilliant.

Eventually Harry felt as if he was the correct temperature again. He could put his coat on. No one else came in to use the toilet.

That was fine. He did some little games Kavika had taught him with his wand, lighted dots that chased each other, to pass the time. All the kids were doing it these days. Harry felt much better. No one else came in to use the toilet.

That seemed a little unusual. How long had it been? Fifteen minutes? Maybe half an hour.

Harry felt like he didn’t need to pretend anymore, if he went out. He felt like he could go out. He could even probably enjoy the party, maybe. He felt all right. He felt good, even. The time alone, the water, the games with his wand—Fudge was stupid. Spragg was a fool. People shouldn’t get so het up, but people were that way. They had always been that way. Harry used to be able to handle it. He could handle it, he realized suddenly. He was ready to go back out.

But how strange, that no one had come in to use the men’s.

Harry finally opened the door, looking around to assess. No one seemed to have noticed his absence. The party was still going on. No one seemed to have noticed he had returned, either. People were facing in his direction, and yet their eyes seemed to pass right over him. Frowning, Harry turned back to the men’s. It was easy to see why no one paid him any mind. Even the door itself was hard to see, wreathed as it was in Notice-Me-Nots. Harry turned back to the hall.

A cream-coloured cloak with a blond head above it slipped between two people in the crowd and disappeared.

Harry took a step to follow.

“Better?” said Hermione, hurrying up from another direction.

Harry glanced at her, then back at the crowd, which had already blended back together in a series of greens and blues and blacks, none of them cream. “Yeah,” Harry told Hermione. 

“Come on.” Hermione took Harry’s arm, steering him toward the door. “Ron’s punched someone.”

“Oh,” Harry said, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder, back at the crowd. “That’s not good.”

“He didn’t really.” Hermione seemed amused she had got him to believe this, but Harry couldn’t help it. He was a bit discombobulated. “I cursed someone.”

“Okay, that’s not true,” Harry said, finally focusing.

“But we wanted to.” Hermione squeezed his arm. “All right, then? You still seem a little wobbly.”

“No,” Harry said. “I’m good now. Did you,” he started, then began again. “Did you cast a Notice-Me-Not on the men’s?”

“No,” Hermione said. “I wish I’d thought of it, but honestly, Harry, I didn’t even notice you leaving. I think probably everyone was just too distracted.”

She hadn’t noticed him leaving, but Hermione noticed everything. Harry swallowed. “Thanks for—for catching the chandelier. You saved me.”

“You save me,” Hermione said, with her little smile. “It’s this thing we learned in school.”

Harry glanced back after his shoulder after all. 

*

Andromeda, Harry, and Teddy always spent Christmas at Old Wob with the Granger-Weasleys, then New Years at the Burrow with everyone alive, and some people who were dead. After the hols, Teddy went back to Hogwarts, Hermione and Ron went back to work, and Harry had another week to kill before the term started at Academy. That left Harry alone in Pecket Well, just outside of Cambridge. The cottage was an old wizarding house in an old wizarding town, and he always thought he liked it until he had to stay in it.

 _You don’t have to stay in it,_ Kavika would say. _Think about what would make you happy._

What would make him happy was not having to think about what made him happy. Shouldn’t you just know what would make you happy? You shouldn’t have to think about it, and anyway, Harry should have been happy here. It was better than Grimmauld Place, but then again, anything was better than that. Harry wished he could go to work.

_Work shouldn’t be an excuse to escape your life._

What did Kavika know anyway? She was in Beirut. 

With all of his moping about the house, Harry should have been happy to get back to Academy, and he was, mostly, but the weather was cold and rainy, and he didn’t like mornings, and his coffee was burnt, and three different instructors stopped him on the way in, and one of them was Spragg.

“And one of my cousins is dating a Vulnerable,” Spragg was going on. “Can you imagine? The power imbalance _alone._ It made me want to tell that poor man what he was getting into, but of course _that_ wouldn’t be fair either. Imagine forcing that on someone? It’s obscene.”

Harry wished he had more coffee.

“Anyway, how were your hols?” Spragg asked.

“There weren’t any non-magical people, if that’s what you’re asking,” Harry said, shifting his armful of scrolls to his other arm, his almost-empty coffee cup to the opposite hand.

“I appreciate that you call them non-mags, instead of using slurs,” Spragg said.

“Right. You do know I didn’t vote Conceal, don’t you?” Harry said, his voice still a little scratchy from disuse. 

Spragg looked surprised. “Well, of course I know that, Harry. Do you think I wouldn’t talk to you? Just because we have a difference of opinion?”

“Right,” Harry said slowly. “I have to go to my office and prepare for the day. If you don’t have a difference of opinion.”

“I was trying to have a polite conversation.” Now Spragg looked hurt.

“I wasn’t,” said Harry, who tried to be nice to people, but hadn’t had enough coffee and felt like Spragg was a little too much like Umbridge to deserve his respect.

“There’s no cause to be rude!” Whirling away, Spragg marched off down the hall.

 _Sometimes there is,_ Harry thought at him, but that time wasn’t necessarily now. Sighing, Harry headed to his office, where someone must have got him coffee, because a fresh paper cup of it sat on his desk. This was not unusual—the coffee was, but not someone leaving him presents on his desk, and Harry had long since stopped worrying about being assassinated. No one had tried to kill him for almost a year, and that last time had been a fan who was not well, and the Academy was superbly warded. People just liked Harry. They got him things, either for being himself or for defeating Voldemort or for being black-haired and tall; pick one. Students and faculty alike were always ingratiating themselves—witness Spragg in the corridor. 

Setting his scrolls down, Harry checked the coffee. It had to be from one of the instructors—Penelope or Gareth, maybe Clarence, because no one else knew his regular order, and he sipped it as he looked at the schedule for the day. ADADA was first, and he was going to do the boggart lesson that Lupin had done. Boggarts would be an elementary exercise for the trainees, who were all graduates from magical grade schools—one was from Beauxbatons, but everyone learned how to deal with a boggart in primary magic school. The lesson was still useful, though; one had to act under pressure, and this was an important skill.

When Harry had first started teaching Academy, boggarts had been one of his first lessons. This had been a mistake. At least three of the trainees’ boggarts were Harry himself, and Harry had felt heartbroken that somehow he’d managed to scare his students as much as Snape had Neville. _They don’t know you, mate,_ Ron had said, when Harry had confided to him. _Once they do . . ._ He’d shrugged. _Riddikulus will probably make their boggart turn into you._

The coffee was even better than usual, and Ron had been right. Now Harry always did the boggart lesson in the second half of Level One, and he was never anyone’s boggart. There were always quite a few Voldemort boggarts—none of which looked very Voldemorty, as most of the trainees weren’t old enough to even know what Voldemort really looked like, much less old enough to have actually encountered him. 

Malfoy would, Harry thought suddenly, sipping his coffee. Harry wasn’t in the game of guessing people’s boggarts—you could never know what someone feared on the inside, no matter what was on the outside—but if Malfoy’s boggart was Voldemort, it would at least look accurate. Harry wondered how it would feel, to see Voldemort again, the real one. Sort of the real one. Downing more coffee for fuel, Harry rolled up his scrolls, and headed off to class.

*

Malfoy’s boggart wasn’t Voldemort.

Harry had barely noticed Malfoy for most of the class, either because Harry had unconsciously been ignoring him, or because Malfoy had tried to be ignored. Merlin knew Malfoy was deft with a Notice-Me-Not, Harry thought sourly, as he watched Travers step up in line. Harry was noticing Malfoy now, because Malfoy should have been next, only he fell back in line to let Adebayo ahead of him.

Travers’s boggart was a normal looking person in odd-looking clothes—someone he knew, probably, and Harry found himself thinking again about Malfoy’s boggart.

 _He’s in love with me_ , Harry thought, like a bubble popping in his brain. Somehow, Harry had almost forgot—maybe because the thought didn’t embarrass him as keenly as it had at first. Malfoy had stopped flirting, after the Patronus, and he’d begun trying harder in class. With the hols, Harry had had time to get over it. Maybe Malfoy would too. New year, new leaf, and all that.

“Riddikulus,” Travers said, and the normal-looking person in odd clothes who had been his boggart became a tiny figure dancing on an enormous cake. Adebayo, who was next, made her dragon boggart play a trumpet. Then it should have been Malfoy’s turn, except Moskowitz had somehow ended up behind Adebayo, with Malfoy now behind Moskowitz. Moskowitz’s boggart was the dark, which always caused a bit of confusion, but Moskowitz cast Riddikulus to fill the dark with friendly voice, one of which kept saying, _Hey! Who turned out the lights?_ Then the next person must have stepped up, because the room was bright again, and a dozen or so rats were scurrying about the room. 

Rats were not Malfoy’s boggart. They were Wan’s, who was now standing where Malfoy should have been, and behind Wan was Bennet, who had started the exercise in the first place. “Do I have to go again?” Bennet asked, when the boggart began to change into her own gravestone.

Harry, who had been sitting on the edge of his desk to watch, as this exercise usually required very little interference from him, took a sip of coffee. “Not everyone has gone.”

“But I started,” said Bennet.

Harry looked over the group of trainees, Malfoy lounging against the wall in the back, as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “Would everyone who hasn’t yet taken a turn come up, please?” Harry said.

The trainees all looked at each other. Malfoy looked like he might start whistling.

Harry resisted rolling his eyes. “Malfoy.”

“What?” said Malfoy.

“Your turn,” said Harry.

“Oh, I’m good, thanks.” Malfoy always had this light, quick tone that made him sound as though he thought everything was a great big joke.

“It’s not optional,” Harry said.

“I already did it,” Malfoy said.

“Malfoy.” Harry kept his voice steady. “You literally moved back in line every time it was even close to your turn.”

“Oh. Sure. You mean now.”

“When did you think I meant?”

“Third year. Lupin. It was wild. Weasley’s was a spider. Yours was a Dementor. Longbottom’s was—”

“Malfoy,” Harry said again. “Do the exercise.”

“Mark me down for it.”

“What?” Harry said.

“Zero for today.” Malfoy pushed himself off the wall to shrug. “Too bad, so sad. I’ll make up for it when we do Occlumency. When are we doing Occlumency?” he asked, turning to Adebayo.

“Mind magic is Level Two,” Adebayo said.

“Oh,” said Malfoy. “Oops.”

“Which you’ll never see,” Harry continued for Adebayo, “because if you don’t pass boggarts, you won’t pass Level One.”

“That’s a threat.” Malfoy whirled to face the other trainees. “Did you see that? He’s threatening me.”

“I saw it,” said Adebayo, boggling at Malfoy a little, which Harry supposed was what Malfoy wanted.

Malfoy jabbed a finger in Adebayo’s direction. “He saw it!”

“Malfoy,” Harry said.

“You want me to do it? I’ll do it,” Malfoy said, beginning to saunter through the trainees. Bennet had moved back before the boggart had finished its transformation, and so the boggart had reverted into the rats in frilly dresses taking tea and crumpets, which had been the result of Wan’s Riddikulus.

Then Malfoy was closest to the boggart, and the rats and their tea melted into Malfoy’s boggart.

Harry put down his coffee. He thought he might sick up.

Malfoy’s boggart seemed as though it should have been obvious, now that Harry thought about it. Of course Malfoy was terrified of revealing what he felt.

Almost casually, Malfoy flicked his wand. “ _Riddikulus_ ,” he said, already turning away, not even watching as the glowing silver stag expanded into a big balloon, attached to a string, held by the hand of a child that looked exactly like a young Malfoy, except for how absurdly cute the child was. Springing a leak, the bloated stag-balloon popped off the string and went whizzing about the room, just like Lupin’s moon had third year. The Riddikulused boggart-child began to cry inconsolably.

“He’s afraid of your Patronus?” one of the trainees asked, but Harry ignored it, busying himself with Accio’ing the boggart and putting it in its trunk, so no one would have to see how red his face had got.

“Who fears someone’s Patronus?” someone else asked.

“All right,” Harry said loudly. “Now we’re going to talk about how spells we don’t think of as combat spells—Riddikulus, Expelliarmus, Tarantellegra—can be used to fight even the darkest of dark arts, because the opponent doesn’t necessarily expect them.”

The trainees had all snapped back to attention when Harry began to talk—all but one of them.

“Malfoy,” Harry said. 

Malfoy looked as though he wanted to pretend he hadn’t heard him again, but instead he grudgingly turned his face to Harry’s, not quite meeting Harry’s eyes.

“See me after class,” Harry said.

Malfoy’s jaw hardened, and Harry turned back to the rest of the trainees.

*

“Malfoy,” Harry called, as the trainees were filing out of the classroom, Malfoy pretending as if he was part of the mass exodus so he could escape with them. “We’re going to talk. Remember?”

A trace of a grimace passed over Malfoy’s face, then was gone, but he stayed behind. The last of the trainees filed out, and then they were alone. “You told me you were going to make an effort in my classes,” Harry said.

“Still not good enough?” Malfoy said, his voice still light. “Such a surprise. The ex-Death Eater fails to impress Boy Wonder of the Wizarding World. How could this be so?”

“You don’t need to impress me,” Harry said. “You just need to follow my instruction.”

The breeziness in Malfoy’s tone disappeared. “You know why I didn’t follow your instruction.”

“No one knew what it meant,” Harry said. 

Malfoy just gave him a look, and Harry finally knew what the phrase ‘glaring daggers’ meant. “ _You_ knew what it meant.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said, then realized he didn’t know what to say. The nausea was back. “Don’t bring me coffee,” he heard himself say.

Malfoy tossed his head. “Why not? You wanted it.”

“I don’t want coffee from you, Malfoy.”

“Pretend it’s from Santa. Pretend it’s from God, or Godric—I know!” Malfoy snapped his fingers. “Pretend you pulled it out of a hat.”

“Coffees don’t come from hats.”

“Neither do swords. Or rabbits.”

“What?”

Malfoy sniffed his posh, snooty little sniff as if to show he didn’t care. “Haven’t you anything else to say to me?”

Harry frowned. “You really expect me to thank you?”

For a single moment, Malfoy’s surprise was honest and unguarded, then it slid again under a surface of mocking ease, like a stone dropped into a pool with just one ripple. “I meant, have you anything else to say about how I’m failing your class? But you can thank me if you want. I accept compliments. Chocolates. Flowers. Passing marks. Serenades by the lake-side, if you’re not a cheapskate.”

“I’m a cheapskate.”

“Shocked. I’m shocked!”

Harry just stared at him, morbid curiosity overcoming him. “Serenades, Malfoy? Really?”

“Not your own. Hire a band.”

Shaking his head, Harry turned away, dismissing Malfoy with a hand. “I don’t care what your boggart is. I don’t care what your Patronus is; don’t disrupt my class again.”

Going back to the trunk, Harry checked the locks. Boggarts were not beings; they were more like—phenomena. _Mirrors_ , Lupin had said once. _You can tell a lot about someone by what they fear._

“I might,” Malfoy called out.

“Why are you still here?” Harry kept his back to him.

“I might disrupt your class,” Malfoy went on. “I’m disruptive.”

“What’s odd,” Harry said, turning around, “is I know you’re _capable_ of leaving me in peace. So why aren’t you doing it now?”

“You don’t need me to,” Malfoy said, quite simply.

“I need you to,” Harry said.

Malfoy held his eyes a moment, turned on his heel, then walked away.

Harry looked down at the trunk with the boggart in it. _Whatever you need,_ Malfoy had said in the men’s, at the holiday party, _I’ll give it to you._ Frowning, Harry picked up the trunk, heading back to his office to prepare for his next class.

*

“Welcome back,” Harry said, when Kavika answered the door on a surprisingly warm day in February.

“I should be saying that to you,” said Kavika.

“You were in Beirut.”

“This is my home.” 

Kavika had come out of retirement to treat Harry, which was why her office was a room in her house. This might have felt awkward, except Kavika and Kingsley currently lived in the Minister residence, which was in London, so the place Harry went to visit them as friends was not the same as the place where he had therapy. Something would have to change when Kingsley stopped being Minister, but Harry hoped that wouldn’t be for a good long while. If the Deal happened, they would need him.

Harry and Kavika talked pleasantries for a little while; Kavika had been to see her first granddaughter. Kingsley had only been able to come for a few days now and then, but Kavika had spent almost six weeks with her. Harry teased that Molly was already at seven grandchildren and never seemed tired a whit; Kavika replied she had no ambitions to be Molly Weasley. Kavika asked how the hols had been, and Harry told her.

“And how are you?” Kavika asked, once Harry was settled in his chair.

“Oh. Well. I’m alive.” Harry felt himself began to fidget. Forcing himself to think about the question, he made his hands stop. “Actually, not so good. It’s just . . . the nightmares. Sometimes they’re better. Sometimes they’re worse.”

“I’m glad you told me, Harry. What else has been going on? How were the hols?”

“Oh. Good. I mean, mostly. I—talked to Teddy.”

“That must have been hard.” The lines in Kavika’s face went softer. “How did it go?”

“He still wants to be an Auror.” Harry gave a little shrug. “I know what you said. I can’t control his life.”

“But you want to keep him safe.”

“If anyone had told me I shouldn’t be an Auror . . .” Looking down, Harry discovered he was rubbing the scar on his hand, then made himself stop. “It’s not that I think he can’t handle it—the actual job, I mean. But it . . . wears you down. Not just the late nights; it’s finding out the—the sheer _ugliness_ inside of people, and then there’s the . . . the stag _nation_ , the bureaucracy, and you see what people really are—but it’s not what they really are, because there can be hope. There can be change; it just—and with Reveal, there’s no way it can’t be worse; there’s no way it gets any—” Harry cut himself off.

Kavika’s sympathy was knowing, partly rueful. “Did you say all that to Teddy?”

Harry grimaced. “More or less.”

“You’re right,” Kavika said. “You wouldn’t have listened to any of it, at seventeen.”

“Thanks for that.”

“And how are your classes this quarter?”

“Good. They’re fine.” Harry thought about this, the subjects they had still to cover, his star pupils, the trainees who were struggling. How it felt in class. “I worry about Bennet,” he heard himself say, without quite knowing he was going to.

“Who?” 

“One of my students.” Harry ran his fingers over the scar on his hand after all. “She’s . . . she’s just taken up a lot of Spragg’s ideas.”

Kavika put her chin in her hand, contemplative. “‘Non-mags are weak and helpless. We’re practically their parents; we must shield them from our world.’ Those ideas?”

“Right,” Harry agreed. “It’s just the way Spragg says it, it sounds like he thinks non-mags can’t think for themselves, and even though the whole point is he wants to protect non-mags, it begins to sound like the neo-purist. Sometimes, it’s easy to . . .”

“Easy to what, Harry?” Kavika asked, when Harry trailed off.

Harry looked down at his hands, _I must not tell lies_ carved into the back of one of them in his own handwriting. “It’s easy to think they _are_ . . . not very bright. I mean, how could they not know we exist? Even with Obliviate? And when I think of Uncle—” Abruptly Harry stood, needing to put his back to her.

Silence followed, one of Kavika’s warm, gentle silences. “You can say it, Harry.”

“I don’t _want_ to say it,” Harry said.

“Saying that your uncle was awful, ignorant, and cruel is not the same as saying non-mags are ignorant and cruel. It’s the same as saying your uncle was ignorant and cruel, and that’s all.”

“Who knows what Bennet’s parents were like?” Harry asked. “Or Spragg’s, for that matter? Spragg’s were magical, but I still have no idea.”

Another silence followed. “Are you telling me about Bennet for a reason, Harry?” Kavika said quietly.

 _Sometimes you focus on other people more than yourself_ , Kavika had told him before. _Sometimes you focus on what they might be doing wrong, and you obsess about it. Most of the time you focus on helping them, and you obsess over that. This benefits almost everyone; it was what made you a good Auror. It was what made you win the war. There was only one person it doesn’t benefit, Harry._

“Sometimes it benefits me,” Harry said, turning around.

“What?” Kavika said.

“You think I’m focusing on Bennet instead of my—my own problems. But sometimes it benefits me. I don’t always want to think about—about . . .”

As Harry struggled for words, lines began to show in Kavika’s brow, as well as at the side of her mouth. “Oh, of course not, Harry. Too much thought can certainly be wasted on people like Vernon and Petunia Dursley. They’re not worth it.”

 _They’re worth something!_ Harry’s brain instantly responded, but Kavika was always telling him he didn’t have to defend them. _You don’t have to defend people who have hurt you,_ she had said, and Harry tried to remind himself of it. His aunt and uncle had hurt him. They had hurt him. 

They had hurt him.

“I just meant,” Harry went on, “that after the war . . . it didn’t matter so much if people thought non-mags were helpless idiots. Even if the Death Eaters didn’t get what they deserved, all of them knew it was a very bad idea to go about massacring or enslaving or touting any Grinde-mort type theories. But now with Reveal . . . It was what Grindelwald wanted, right? His whole thing was he wanted to end the Statute.”

“That’s why we have the Deal,” said Kavika. “It’s nothing like what Grindelwald wanted.”

“Yeah.” Harry rubbed his hand some more. “The Deal.”

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned it.”

“Bit hard to avoid, isn’t it? It’s all anyone talks about.”

“Do you think the Deal has anything to do with your nightmares?”

“What?” Harry stopped. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Reveal hasn’t even happened yet.”

“You don’t think worries about the future could affect your sleep?”

“Of course,” Harry said. “I just meant . . . er. It’s mostly in the political stage. We don’t even know if it’s going to happen. They’ve been going back and forth on it forever, haven’t they? The vote was last year.”

Kavika pressed her lips together, her steady mouth, her steady eyes, her steady smile. “And you don’t think that uncertainty could ever cause anxiety?”

Harry felt a little chagrined. “This is the part where I say I died, and I watched my friends get tortured, and I tracked criminals for years, and more than once witnessed a non-mag sacrifice because fringe-purists still think blood magic is a thing.”

“Now remind me of what I say next,” Kavika said softly.

Harry sighed. “You say just because I went through all that doesn’t mean I can’t be anxious about other things.”

Kavika could look so generous in her sympathy, her large eyes carrying her heart as well as Harry’s. “And you tell me that life is better now, and you shouldn’t be anxious,” she said. “You, who witnessed blood sacrifices and won for us a war.”

“Well.” Harry looked away. “When you put it like that.”

Kavika let the silence hold, a waiting thing that prowled about the room as Harry chased his thoughts, but then seemed at last to turn a circle on the floor between them and settle down to sleep. As if sensing the fact that Harry had mentally repeated their argument about it several times and had at last accepted once more the fact that he was allowed, indeed, to be anxious, Kavika said, “Bennet really worries you?”

“I don’t know.” Harry took off his glasses, Summoning the little red cloth Luna had once given him to clean them. “I don’t know, probably not. I—maybe I was an Auror too long. I saw too many blood supremacists; it makes me assume that anyone who talks about non-magical people as weak wants to enslave them all and torture them.”

“Or sacrifice them.”

Sighing, Harry put his glasses back on. “Spragg’s right. We know he’s right; they _are_ weaker. That’s the whole problem. I mean, I voted for it, but without the Statute, what’s to _stop_ people from taking advantage of non-mags? We take advantage of each other with the power we have. Look at Dawlish; look at Stan Shunpike during the war. Imperius is powerful, and at least with the wards separating our world from—” Harry stopped himself. “I guess I am worried about it.”

“Congratulations,” Kavika said. “You’re a wizard, Harry.”

Harry laughed.

“I would wager you that if I still had my practice, every single patient would be talking about Reveal. Honestly,” Kavika went on, “I was wondering when you would talk to me about it.”

“You could have asked.”

“Oh, no.” Kavika stood up, heading over to her side table. “I hear about this every day from my husband. Do you think I wanted more?”

Snorting, Harry said, “That makes me feel great about opening up to you.”

“I told you I wouldn’t always be friendly when we first started, Harry.” Kavika was joking, and Harry was further mollified by the fact that she appeared to be making coffee, waving her wand to grind the beans and then heat the water. “So, Bennet and Spragg are thick as thieves. How are the rest of your classes?”

Kavika always had beautifully ornate wizard robes, edged with intricate patterns of gold along all the swathes of complicated cloth, and Harry watched the rich fabric flow as she spelled the water into the ground beans. “Malfoy brings me coffees.”

“Oh dear. How difficult. Do you take it?”

“Don’t have a choice. He leaves them on my desk. The first one, I didn’t know it was him. The second one—I poured it out. But after that.” Harry gave her a speaking look. “I can’t go about pouring out coffees. It isn’t right.”

Kavika chuckled. “One must obey one’s conscience. Especially when it comes to coffees.” Turning, she spelled Harry’s cup over to him, then picked up one for himself.

“Thanks,” Harry said, taking the cup from the air.

“So, the flirtation continues?” Kavika gestured, and they both took their seats once more.

“No.” Harry held the cup on his knee, which was one of the—many—things he liked about coffee; it gave him something to do with his hands. “Or maybe the coffee is, but Malfoy doesn’t—he doesn’t do those things. Anymore. He . . .” Harry looked down at his coffee.

Kavika sipped her own. “You have me on tenterhooks.”

“He’s . . . his boggart. Is my Patronus.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Kavika put her coffee down. “This is turning into a very juicy drama.”

“Yeah. Thanks. I’m his boggart; I’m his Patronus. He’s going to learn to be an Animagus, and he’ll turn into me.”

“Or his feelings for you, at any rate.” Kavika picked up her coffee again.

“You’re not helping,” Harry said.

“Can an Animagus be a big, red pumping heart?”

“I just feel . . .” Harry paused, gathering his thoughts. “I feel like I should be able to get away from him, you know? Or he should be able to get away from me. It’s such a big world; there’s no reason he has to be obsessed with me—not after all this time. But I think about the Reveal. The Academy. The Ministry. It’s all the same names as in the war. All the same ideas, too. All of it comes back. It all comes back.”

“The wizarding world is an incestuous loop,” Kavika agreed. “This is the real reason we need Reveal: new blood.”

“New blood,” Harry agreed. “Maybe Malfoy will get obsessed with some non-mag and finally leave me alone.”

“I hear they can be very attractive.” Kavika sipped her coffee. “There’s one famous fellow; who is he? Lewd Jaw.”

“Lewd Jaw?”

“That’s what they call him,” said Kavika. “In the moving pictures.”

Harry stared at her. “Jude Law.”

“Who?”

Harry buried his head in his hands. “Wizards are doomed.”

“And witches shall rule the world,” Kavika agreed.

*

Cambridge was living that one week in March that already felt like May, before the dreary rain and cold returned to remind them of April still to come. The sun had just risen in a gentle arrangement of pink and gold, and blue was slowly populating the sky when Harry Apparated to the Academy to find a dozen reporters outside the Pallas Arch. Unauthorized personnel were not allowed within the wards of the Academy grounds, but since Apparition was also disallowed, the reporters knew Harry would have to appear outside before going in. 

This used to happen all the time when Harry had first started as an instructor, but that had been four years ago, and Harry Potter had proven rather boring to the _Prophet_ and the wizard wireless, with only a few resurgences of interest here and there. The last time Harry had seen reporters gathered here had been Draco Malfoy’s first day at Academy. Hopefully, whatever the reporters were here for, it had nothing to do with Malfoy’s Patronus. Or Malfoy in general. Or Harry.

The reporters all began to shout the moment Harry appeared, blocking his admission through the arch with the crowd of their bodies. To get through them, Harry would have had have to jinx them, and while he had never been known for being kind to reporters, he didn’t like raising his wand against people when he didn’t have to.

“So,” Harry said instead. At the sound of his voice they all immediately went quiet, quills and magic microphones poised. “I want you to know, for the record, that when I go to cast a Patronus, and think deeply about what makes me comfortable and happy and at peace, I think about pretty much the opposite of you lot.”

“Why did you tell Theodore Lupin he shouldn’t be an Auror?” one of the reporters shouted.

“If you’re against the Aurors, what are you teaching the brave young men and women training to put their lives on the line to defend our world against dark wizardry?” 

“Do you think the pro-purism, blood secrecy, and isolationism baked within magical society has influenced Ministry institutions such as the Aurors?”

Harry ignored the questioners, except the last one. “Really, Lee? You?”

Lee had the decency to look chagrined. “It’s my job.”

Someone came out of the Pallas Arch, and a few of the reporters turned to see who it was and whether it was someone they would attack with questions, but most stayed focused on Harry and Lee, who was opening his mouth again.

“You could have booked an interview,” a smooth voice said. “I was free. You didn’t have to come and meet me.”

More people turned to look, and Draco Malfoy was sauntering around the crowd, loosely holding a broomstick. 

“Don’t you think we need Aurors now more than ever?” one the of the reporters asked Harry, pushing against Lee. “Especially if there’s a No Deal Reveal?”

“If you must know,” Malfoy said, even though no one had said anything to him, “I’m failing half my classes.” Malfoy was walking around the crowd toward Harry, but no one seemed to pay him any mind. 

Instead, a yellow-haired reporter asked Harry, “Do you think Lupin couldn’t handle it?”

“Can’t even cast a Patronus.” Malfoy tapped the blonde’s notebook as he passed her by. “Write that down. ‘The Death Eater who caused Dumbledore’s death doesn’t even have a happy thought to think.’ This is poetry, people. An elegy in verse.” Malfoy had reached Harry’s side, but still, no one was looking at him.

“Are you afraid for your godson’s life?” asked another reporter. “Magical law enforcement is dangerous career choice.”

“Here,” Malfoy said, holding out his broomstick in front of Harry.

“What?” Harry said, not understanding.

Malfoy waggled the broomstick. “Take it. We’re taking out the big boy spells, now.” Then he turned to the reporters. “Who wants to hear about who my father’s paying under the table to gin up support for a referendum on the Reveal vote?”

Several pairs of eyes grew in size; half of the reporters turned to Malfoy, and Harry grabbed the broom.

“Is Lucius Malfoy still friends with the Supreme Mugwump?” the blonde asked Malfoy excitedly.

“Will Lucius Malfoy’s investments in NimbusTech influence company advertising in favour of Conceal?” another reporter shouted.

Harry put his leg over the broomstick, and Lee leaned in toward him urgently. “We’ve got to expose the corruption within the institution, Harry.”

“You know how to use a Floo,” Harry said, taking off into the air, sailing over the heads of the reporters through the Pallas Arch to the safety of the Academy grounds. Behind him, the reporters who had turned to watch him go joined their colleagues, who were all talking to Malfoy now, and Malfoy seemed to be loving the attention. 

Good riddance, Harry thought, and yet he was plagued by the knowledge that Malfoy had diverted attention not just because he wanted it. Malfoy had emerged from the Pallas Arch, which meant he had already been through it that morning; he would have seen the reporters. That meant he had gone inside and come back out again with his broom just to give it to Harry, just to give the reporters someone else to bother.

Within the Academy walls, people knew not to ask Harry press questions, but a few people wanted to commiserate, and from this Harry gleaned that somehow an owl Teddy had sent to him from Hogwarts had been tracked and intercepted. This was how the reporters had learned that Harry had talked to Teddy about not being an Auror, and by the time Harry got to his office he just felt tired and sick of it, wanting peace.

A cup of coffee stood on his desk, warmed with a spell, lazy steam rising from the top like the most beckoning of gestures.

Fucking Malfoy.

Picking up the cup, Harry drank it gratefully.

*

Harry spent the time between classes that day in his office so people wouldn’t bother him, but this escape did not have the desired effect, as owls from the press and Aurors and concerned citizens and acquaintances who wanted to be outraged about the invasion of his privacy kept pecking at his window. Penelope had already come by twice to say she understood everything Harry was going through, and intercepting people’s owls was just wrong, and he didn’t really tell Teddy not to be an Auror, had he? Because if he had, that made the Academy and the force and the fight for justice and good and blood equality look bad, didn’t it, and he didn’t want to make them look bad, did he?

At the end of the day, Harry thought about going home, and realized that reporters might still be waiting by the Pallas Arch. That was fine. He could wait in his office, with the owls, and the Floo, and the possibility of Penelope. Lee had already Flooed twice, and honestly, the problems with the Auror department and the weird anti-non-mag bias of the Ministry _was_ a big reason Harry had told Teddy maybe it wasn’t a good idea to be an Auror, but did Lee really think Harry wanted to discuss it _now_? Right now? When someone was tracking his godson’s owls?

Teddy used a concealment spell on his owls and coded most of his communications to Harry. Most people who were close to Harry did so. The press might not bother him as much any more, and the assassins really had stopped being a problem, but you couldn’t be too careful. Not when assassins and press were involved.

Harry was tense. He knew he was tense. He should focus on calming down, but _notice your surroundings_ didn’t work when your surroundings were terrible, when the owls kept pecking and the door kept knocking and the Floo kept flaring. Harry’s teeth were gritted, his foot tapping, when a green flame lighted in the hearth, and suddenly it was too much. He needed to leave. Right now. Right the fuck now.

“Harry,” said Molly, who knew he didn’t like to be Flooed at times like this, but who could also not just fucking _listen_ when she loved you and was concerned about you and wanted reassurances that you were okay, but Harry wasn’t okay. He just wasn’t okay.

“I’m okay,” Harry told Molly, because he had tried being honest and telling her he was not okay before, and she had not had the capacity to leave him alone until he had finally lied and told her he would be all right. _It’s all right to do what you need to for yourself,_ Kavika had said. _There are circumstances in which the truth does not serve._ “I have to go, though,” Harry said. “Talk later, yeah?”

“Are you sure you’re well?” Molly asked.

“I’m sure,” Harry said steadily. “Please, I’ve got to go.”

“Well, if you’re really okay.”

“Bye, Molly. I love you.” Banishing the flame, Harry got out. He needed out, outside, with the oxygen, and fresh air; he needed to be outside.

The Timothy Tree was where Harry usually went in times like this; few people ever returned to it after their attempt to climb it. _Do you ever think the Timothy Tree is lonely?_ Ron had asked once, because ever since he had abandoned Hermione and Harry in the incident with the locket, Ron had moments of strange introspection.

 _It’s a tree,_ Hermione had said. She hadn’t attended the Academy, but she knew the tree, of course. She’d even climbed it, because she was Hermione.

 _Right,_ Ron had said. _I just think it’s lonely._

The Timothy Tree did somehow seem removed from the world, as though empires could crash and burn around it and it would not know or see or feel, and Harry loved that. He found it reassuring.

“Instructor Potter,” a voice called, and Harry turned to see a group of his trainees. 

“Hullo, Travers,” Harry said, trying not to sound like he hated the idea of having to talk to anyone. 

_You don’t have to talk to anyone,_ Kavika would have said. _You’re allowed to take time for yourself._ She just hadn’t mentioned how to be polite when you were on your way to _get_ time for yourself, when everyone was just _so concerned_ that it was impossible to be alone.

“We’re going out for a round,” said Travers. “Fancy a pint?”

Sometimes students asked him out for drinks. Sometimes Harry even accepted. “Not tonight,” Harry said.

“Sure?” said Travers. “We got Clearwater and Savage to come, and we’re all of Level One. It’s Orientation all over.”

“The Level Ones who aren’t blood supremacists,” said Fuentes.

“He’s not a blood supremacist,” said Bennet.

“Oh, right.” Fuentes turned to Bennet. “He joined V. Morty because he wanted to cherish and protect Vulnerables.”

“I asked him if he wanted a pint,” said Travers, turning away from Harry to face the group of trainees.

“Ew,” said Bennet. “I said he wasn’t a blood supremacist; I didn’t say I wanted to get a drink with him.”

“He’s all right,” said Moskowitz.

“I’m still cracking up at V. Morty.” Wan was laughing.

“Don’t you think that’s trivializing?” Fuentes.

“He should be trivialized.” Bennet.

“Do you know who _should_ be trivialized?” Moskowitz. “Shacklebolt. If the Council honestly goes for his deal on Reveal—”

“Oh Merlin’s turnips, we’re not going to talk Reveal all night again?” Achar. “I’m so done with . . .”

The voices faded out as Harry got farther away, the trainees too caught up in conversation to notice that Harry had continued in the other direction. For the most part, trainees didn’t talk about the war too much around him—not after he shut it down those first few days of classes, anyway—but they certainly talked about current events, barely aware that current events were the same as past, history bleeding into the present. Most of them too young to have even had a wand when the war was going on. They were allowed to talk about it. Harry just sort of wished they wouldn’t in his hearing. 

The problem with some people being magical and some people not being magical was that it was a hard divide that was always going to exist, always going to separate people. The point of Reveal was to lessen that divide, but while it was happening everything felt so much worse. The Timothy Tree felt so far removed, something that couldn’t and would never care, and Harry wanted to be underneath it more than ever.

The Timothy Tree, however, was occupied.

At its base, on the bench, sat Draco Malfoy, leaning against the trunk, a book in his lap, dull blond hair bent to peer at the pages as though he belonged there, under Harry’s tree. In fact, Malfoy looked almost peaceful there, like some kind of pastoral ideal of a student, reading on the green, the arched cloisters rising behind him. He looked like he belonged, and Harry felt resentment rise hard and strong in his chest, a clawing anger.

Standing in the shadows of the cool, empty stone cloister, Harry took a steadying breath, then another. _Notice your surroundings._ The March day was fading, casting gold light into the courtyard in shafts the building allowed. Malfoy’s hair lit up with it, looking almost bright again, the way it used to. _What does it feel like?_ The day had been warmer than it should but was already growing colder with the dipping sun; no breeze stirred the Timothy Tree or Malfoy’s hair, but Harry could feel the coolness in the air. 

_What does it smell like?_ Sun-baked stone. Rain, held within the dirt. Owls, maybe. A hint of something like—cinnamon. What was that? From this morning’s coffee, perhaps, or maybe that was how Malfoy smelled.

 _What does it sound like?_ Leaves. The distant murmur of students. Owls again. Harry concentrated, wondering if he could hear if Malfoy turned a page. He couldn’t, but when Harry waited, Malfoy eventually turned one page, then another, thoroughly engrossed.

Malfoy seemed so unMalfoyish, sitting by himself, reading, turning pages under a tree Ron said was lonely, when that morning Malfoy had been _so_ Malfoyish, demanding attention from the reporters, swaggering, bragging. _He gave me his broom,_ Harry realized. He hadn’t given it back. And Malfoy had been bragging about his failures, which wasn’t exactly bragging, come to think of it.

Swallowing a sigh, Harry turned away, leaving Malfoy to his reading, his tree, his scent of cinnamon. Malfoy didn’t deserve Harry’s forgiveness, but everyone deserved to be quiet and contemplative for the space of an hour. Everyone deserved some peace, even if not everyone got to have it.

*

“No, I’m not going to pass him!” Harry threw up his hands. “He can’t even cast a bloody Patronus!”

“But his marks in his other classes are quite good,” said Pillwickle’s green face in the hearth.

“And he’s not yet taken the examination.” Fudge was also talking via Floo, though come to think of it, the green didn’t make his complexion look that different.

“The examination doesn’t matter,” Harry said. “He’s already failed.”

“But were he to do well—”

“I don’t care if he downs three Felix Felicis potions and bloody aces it,” Harry said. “You still have to do the coursework, and he hasn’t.”

“Surely he’s done some of it,” said Pillwickle.

“I meant he’s done it poorly,” Harry said. “He’s obviously been trying; he just—is . . .” Harry thought about it, Malfoy’s marks, the parts that gave Malfoy the most trouble, other than the Patronus. “To tell the truth,” Harry said, “Draco Malfoy is bloody terrible at Dark Arts.”

“But you teach Defense _Against_ Dark Arts,” Fudge said, pretty much as disingenuously as possible. “Wouldn’t being bad at Dark Arts make one spectacular at Light Arts?”

“There’s no such thing as Light Arts,” Harry said, “and no. Haven’t you ever heard of the phrase ‘know thy enemy’?”

Fudge sighed. “It’s so tragic you think of Draco as your enemy.”

“I don’t! I think of him as someone who’s failed my class!” Harry paced the length of the Chamber of Fires, which was in the centre of Leck Hall. The hearths built into every wall made it an ideal meeting room, no furniture filling the centre of it so every direction could be faced. Wizard leaders of the world had once communicated via this Chamber, when Cambridge had been the seat of the Ministry just after the Statute had been put in place, and other magical groups around the world began to implement similar wards to separate them from the non-mag world. Now the Chamber was merely used for meetings of Board members who were too privileged and lazy to Apparate to Cambridge on a dreary day in April, when the trainees were off for three weeks to study and practice for examination.

“Are you sure you haven’t failed him out of prejudice, Harry?” Fudge asked.

“Prejudice?” Gobsmacked, Harry stopped pacing. “Me? Against _Malfoy_?”

“You both gave each other a rather rough time in school,” Pillwickle agreed.

“ _Both_ ,” said Harry. “Draco Malfoy was part of a murdering death cult. He tried to kill my best friend. He let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. He stepped on my face. He tried to get my friend sacked. He—”

“But you called him names,” Fudge said. “You never really gave him a chance, Harry.”

“You do hear what you’re saying? Bigoted death cult.” Harry held out his hand, palm up. “Name-calling.” He held out his other hand, balancing the two as though they were scales. “Murder,” he added, looking at one hand, “not giving him a chance.” Harry looked at the other hand, still weighing. “Imperius, torture, bigoted slurs, did I mention _blood supremacist death cult_. Versus not liking his fucking face.”

“Those events are in the past,” said Pillwickle.

Fudge nodded. “This just goes to show you haven’t moved on.”

“I’ve moved on!” Harry felt as though he was going to combust out of his skin. “You were the ones that mentioned Hogwarts!”

“But you don’t think it plays a role in your prejudice against him?” said Fudge.

The world was wrong.

There shouldn’t be a world in which Fudge was a powerful person—never, in the first place, but especially after what Fudge had done. How did anyone get to lie, and cheat, and pretend that massacre and military coup and the rise of a murderous psychopathic demagogue were not even happening—and then still go on? With his money and his power and his position on the fucking Board of Regents? How could anyone so ignorant, so petty, so small-minded ever rise to a position of such power?

 _The wizarding world is incestuous,_ Kavika had said, and there was no way to be a part of it without these people. There was no escaping them, not unless Harry made like Aberforth and went off to raise goats in Scotland. Sometimes Harry did want to raise goats in Scotland, and yet in the end he could never bring himself to do it. He wanted to be a part of the world. 

_We have to make a world better than this one,_ Hermione had told him once.

Slowly, Harry opened his eyes, realizing he had closed them. He felt much calmer now. “I have given Malfoy every chance,” he said slowly, “the same as I do with all trainees. If you want to pass him, I can’t stop you. But you’ll have to sack me to do it.”

“You always were so extreme,” Fudge said sadly.

“What I don’t understand is why it matters so much to you,” Harry went on, his voice very, very clear. “Is Lucius Malfoy paying you?”

Fudge scowled, while Pillwickle managed to look affronted. A laconic tone spoke in the hearth behind Harry.

“Do you honestly think the Honourable Lucius Malfoy wants his son to become an Auror?” said Greengrass from the hearth. He was examining his nails. “Really. It’s beneath him.”

“And I would think advocating on behalf of his son would be beneath you,” Harry pointed out.

“Advocating?” Greengrass looked appalled. “I’m not advocating. Do you think I want my daughter marrying an Auror? Pfft.”

“Marrying?” Harry said, because—was that really happening? Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass? When Malfoy’s Patronus was a stag? Harry felt sick again.

“Now, now,” Bickford said, in another hearth on the last side of the room. His voice was high and decrepit, frayed about the edges. “No shame in being an Auror, my dear Greengrass. That is why we are all here, aren’t we?” Bickford laughed a bit, as though this was a joke, but the laugh turned into a fit of coughing. “After all,” he concluded, swallowing hard, “let’s not forget my great-great grandfather Bickford was an Auror, and his father before that.”

No one on the Board of Regents _now_ had ever been an Auror of course, even though their whole purpose was to support the Academy, which trained Aurors. People who worked in law enforcement or for the Ministry could never make enough money to serve in such an illustrious body. Meanwhile, the pure-blood families who had so many Galleons that their professions didn’t matter would never busy themselves with such manual labour. 

Harry wasn’t fighting that battle just now, though; he was fighting this one. “Why is it so important that I pass Malfoy? If it’s not Lucius’s money, what is it?” Harry asked, then made his voice sound conciliatory. “Maybe if I just had a better understanding, I could help.”

Hesitating, Pillwickle looked toward Fudge’s hearth, then turned back to Harry. “Having Draco Malfoy as an Auror would demonstrate a certain lack of bias,” said Pillwickle.

“ _Lack_ of bias,” Harry repeated. “How is it not a bias to pass someone who isn’t qualified?”

“The young Malfoy has qualifications,” Pillwickle said, “that could balance out certain _other_ bias that exists. In the Ministry itself,” he added, as though this clarified anything.

Pillwickle couldn’t be talking about the bias against non-mags; Harry felt sure. Pillwickle was the one who had said that non-mags were another species at the holiday party, and all of the Board were fairly anti non-mag.

The confusion must have shown on Harry’s face, because Fudge went on to say, “The bias against pure-bloods.”

Harry turned around the room, looking at four fires full of powerful pure-blood men. “The bias against pure-bloods,” he said slowly. “In the Ministry. I’m just checking to make sure I understand, because you do know the Minister of Magic is a pure-blood. Right?”

“Cornelius generalizes,” Pillwickle said. He was a long, lean man with a long, lean face, sagging like a bag holding rather too much in the jowls. His smooth, silky voice always seemed to belie his wrinkles. “We rather mean the bias against a . . . particular sort of pure-blood.”

“You mean white pure-bloods?” Harry said.

“Oh!” Bickford flapped about in his fire, perturbed.

“Don’t be crass,” said Greengrass. “They mean a _political_ sort of pure-blood.”

Harry could not believe what he was hearing, except he could. Of course, he could. This explained exactly why the Ministry had become what it had, so many of them neo-purist isolationists skirting the edge of blood supremacy. To think Harry had been worried about Bennet, who—while insulting towards non-mags—ostensibly had their better interests at heart. “You want Malfoy to be an Auror so he’ll support a purist agenda,” Harry said, just to be sure.

“Oh!” Bickford was bouncing up and down a bit. “Oh, Harry! You wouldn’t think any of us would try to influence any sort of _vote_ now, would you?”

“You tell me,” Harry said. “How’s the Reveal Deal going?”

“The Malfoy child can have his own political opinions, of course,” Pillwickle said, stately and solemn.

“Of course,” Harry agreed. “What I don’t understand is, what would you actually _do_ with him as an Auror? He’d make a terrible one. He can’t even cast a Patronus.”

“Oh,” Bickford said, bouncing again. “So that’s true, then? He can’t cast a Patronus?”

“I’ve told you eight times!” Harry threw up his hands.

Bickford looked at Greengrass beseechingly. “I don’t see how we could pass a fellow who couldn’t even cast such a basic spell.”

“Bernard, you nit,” Greengrass drawled. “ _You_ can’t cast a Patronus.”

Bickford bounced harder. “My great-great-grandfather!”

“Yes, yes,” Fudge said, oily as ever. “Does it really matter who can cast what?”

“When you’re an Auror?” Harry asked. “I don’t know, maybe!”

“Cornelius can’t cast a Patronus either,” Greengrass said in an undertone.

“How dare you?” Fudge fumed, then Greengrass retorted. Bickford tried to calm them, and Pillwickle said something about Malfoy, and Harry couldn’t hear.

Anger had staved it off for a good ten minutes, but now Harry could feel it: panic. It was beginning to crawl down his spine, which stiffened against it. Then it slid into his veins, causing his blood to pump harder, his limbs to grow hotter, his heart thumping so hard it contracted his lungs. He wasn’t going to be able to breathe. He wasn’t going to be able to breathe.

Harry took a noisy breath, then another. The room smelled like Floo powder and sweat. Harry breathed again, then realized the Regents were still arguing amongst themselves. “I’m not going to pass Draco Malfoy,” Harry said, and the bickering stopped. “You can sack me. But I’m not going to pass any person who can’t regularly and consistently cast a Patronus, and that’s it. You decide what to do from there.”

Turning for the last time in the room full of fires, Harry went for the door in the corner and saw himself out.

*

Graduation day dawned cold and grey but brightened into a fine May day by early afternoon. Level Ones always attended as well as faculty, and celebrated members of the Auror force gave the Level Twos their graduation certificates under the Timothy Tree. Harry had always liked graduation. Even though he didn’t appreciate crowds of people, he was usually proud of his trainees. Seeing them succeed gave him hope they could bring a new perspective to the force, whose members seemed to be growing more narrow-minded with each passing day. Only a few exceptions were left—Ron among them.

“So,” Ron said, walking through the halls of the Academy after the graduation ceremony. “They didn’t pass him after all.”

“They didn’t.” Having feared a last-minute shake-up regarding Draco Malfoy’s grade, Harry felt relieved that today had held no surprises.

Looking thoughtful, Ron shoved his hands into the pockets of his robe. “I wonder what he said to them.”

“Who?” Harry asked.

“Malfoy.”

“What he said to who?”

“The Regents,” Ron said. “When they didn’t get him passed.”

Harry frowned. “You think Malfoy knew?”

“That the Regents were looking out for him?” Ron scoffed. “Lucius Malfoy has half the world in his pocket; of course, Malfoy knew.”

Harry looked out the window of Bickford Buckley, at the Timothy Tree, where trainees still milled about, talking and congratulating each other. Looking at the tree, Harry could almost see Malfoy sitting under it, reading, and Harry remembered the urge to give Malfoy peace. Harry turned back to Ron. “Greengrass said that Lucius doesn’t want his Malfoy to be an Auror.”

“It’s not as if he wants him to fail either, though.” Ron stopped. “Oh, come off it, Harry. You’re the one who always used to think Malfoy was plotting something. You really think he didn’t intend for them to get him passed?”

Ron was right—not about always thinking Malfoy was plotting something, but about Harry’s intuition. It had always been right about Malfoy—or, well. It had been right most of the time. Harry bit his lip. “I don’t know.”

“Well, anyway,” Ron said, walking on. “I’m glad he wasn’t there. That would’ve been bloody awkward, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” Harry said, walking along-side Ron, who gave him a sidelong glance.

“So,” Ron said again. “Teddy’s applied.”

“Yes,” Harry said again. “He has.”

Ron snuck another glance at him. “It’s going to be all right.”

“I know. Teddy’s smart. He’s strong.” Harry rubbed the scar on his hand. “It’s his choice.”

“Right,” Ron said, clapping him on the back, “and you’ll be here, when he’s at Academy, and I’ll be there, when he’s on the force. It’s not all bad, Harry.”

“I never said it was.”

“And you know, they’ll need us more than ever with Reveal.”

Harry’s brain was already too crowded to think about this; there had been too many people. He was already dreading the post-graduation celebration. “Right,” he said, stopping in the corridor near the stairs. “Listen, you go on without me, okay? I’m going to pop up to my office and square things away before the pub.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Ron, already turning toward the stairwell.

“Er.” Harry’s hand touched the scar on the back of his other hand, and then he remembered that this was Ron. This was okay. “I’m not actually going to square things away,” he confessed, feeling a bit embarrassed that he had tried to cover it in the first place.

“What do you—oh.” Ron broke off, his face breaking into the kindest sympathy, just like his mother. Unlike his mother, Ron could listen. “Because of the crowd?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I just need a little bit. I’ll join you later, okay?”

“Right, mate.” Ron gave him an encouraging smile. “Take as long as you need. I’ll cover for you, all right?”

“Thanks, Ron,” Harry said, heading up the stairs.

The Timothy Tree was still too crowded; Harry’s office was the only real place he could be alone right now, and so he went, eager for the solitude, glad to see his desk once more. 

On the desk sat a cup of steaming coffee. 

Seeing the coffee, Harry immediately whirled, looking around his office as though Malfoy might be hiding in the corner of it. But Malfoy hadn’t been at the graduation. He hadn’t been in the Academy at all that day; he had failed two courses. He hadn’t moved to Level Two, and so he was no longer a student here.

Harry picked up the cup. It smelled just like his favourite—better than his favourite. Malfoy had been right. La Reve with the oat milk did the best flat white. Sighing, Harry took off the lid, blew on the coffee, and sat down to drink it.

Caffeine could make you jumpy, anxious. Caffeine addiction could make you jumpy and anxious if you _didn’t_ have coffee, and this cup was perfect, so perfectly timed. It was probably poison. It wasn’t from Malfoy; maybe none of them had been from Malfoy, or maybe all of them had been from Malfoy in a nefarious plot to gain Harry’s trust so on graduation day, Harry Potter could finally be poisoned. It was definitely poison, and Harry drank every last drop. It soothed him down to the bones.

He was even thinking that he felt calm and well enough to go to the pub, now, and then someone knocked on the door. “Come in,” Harry said, before he thought about it, and Draco Malfoy sailed in.

Shit.

“Oh hello,” Malfoy said, nonchalantly, as though startled to see Harry here, when Harry had just bloody said to bloody come in.

“Malfoy.” Harry stood up.

“No need to stand,” Malfoy said airily. “In fact, you’ll probably want to sit. I’m here about my marks.”

“Are you.” It wasn’t really a question, and Harry sank back down into the chair behind his desk.

“Yes.” Malfoy walked about, pretending to look at the shelves. “I’ve failed, you see.”

Harry put his head in his hands, then remembered what Ron had said. His head lifted out of his hands. “Your friends already tried to get you a passing grade,” he said carefully, watching for Malfoy’s reaction. “They also failed.”

“I don’t have friends.” Malfoy spun easily on his heel to face him. “Wait, you’re serious.”

“You didn’t know you had people in high places who wanted you to pass?”

“Do you—my father doesn—” Malfoy cut himself off, snapping his fingers. “Povey.”

“Clarence Povey?” Harry asked, wondering what the First Aid and Minor Magical Healing instructor had to do with anything.

“He always liked me.” Malfoy smirked, looking so self-satisfied that he was like a cat with cream _and_ a canary. “He says I should have been a healer.”

“Why don’t you?” Harry said bluntly. “Be a healer.”

“Maybe I shall,” Malfoy said breezily, coming over to Harry’s desk, placing his thigh on it to hold some of his weight, then poking the Veritascope. “So, old Povey wanted to keep me, did he? I was very attentive in his class, Potter. You should have seen me.”

Malfoy could be lying, of course, but he really didn’t seem as though he thought anyone else might have tried to support his passing Level One into Level Two. Harry, however, was a little too distracted to be relieved about it. “Stop that,” he said, pulling the Veritascope out of Malfoy’s hand. “Why are you always—poking things?”

“Sorry,” Malfoy said, then quickly added, “not very sorry. Fidgety. Need something to do with my hands. I was never like that, before sixth year.”

Malfoy was making that up—but why would he? Harry had his own need to rub his scar pretty well under control; Malfoy wasn’t imitating him to identify with him. Was he? Fuck, Harry was paranoid. Putting the Veritascope in the drawer, he said, “I’m not changing your grade, Malfoy.”

“What? No. Of course not.” Malfoy looked interested. “You think I’d ask you to change my grade?”

“What else would you be here for?”

“You think I have no shame?”

Malfoy’s worst fear was the fact that his Patronus would reveal his feelings for Harry; of course, he had shame. “What do you want?”

“You’re not my instructor anymore.” Malfoy was fully sitting on Harry’s desk now, turned to face him.

“It’s still my office, Malfoy,” Harry said, finally beginning to be impatient. “Tell me what you want, or—”

“That means I’m not your student.”

A knot of shallow dread tied itself in Harry’s throat, shutting him up. He _did_ have intuition about Malfoy, he realized, and he hoped to Merlin’s shaggy beard that just now, that intuition was dead wrong.

“So now, it wouldn’t be inappropriate to have this conversation.”

 _It’s always inappropriate to have this conversation,_ Harry wanted to scream, but the words caught in his throat. Oh God. Was this happening?”

“I think I know what you’re going to say,” Malfoy went on. 

“Then maybe you should—not,” Harry finally managed to say.

Malfoy stood up, pacing over to the window. The breezy tone was gone, but his voice was still soft. “If I don’t, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life,” he said. “I already regret it. I’ve regretted it for—I wish I had been brave. I wish I had been a braver person, that I could face—well. I wish I could have faced things. Then.”

“Malfoy,” Harry croaked.

Malfoy turned from the window to face him. “I’m in love with you,” he said. “I don’t know why. I’ve never known why. You’re—you’re bloody impossible, and I’m—I’m—well, look at me. I was a Death Eater and I tried to kill your friends and I—well. All number of other things you’re probably too righteous to forgive.”

“I don’t have to forgive you,” Harry said.

Malfoy looked down, hands going to his hips. “I know.”

“But I can.” 

Malfoy’s head jerked up.

“I can forgive you. That’s not why I don’t love you.” Harry felt strangely calm. “You were my bully, Draco.”

Malfoy’s eyes doubled in size and he looked strangely hungry, shoulders tight and hunched but still looking up at Harry, as if waiting for any drop that Harry could give.

“You bullied me,” Harry said. “You hurt me. You cut me off; you made me feel alone. You hurt people I loved.”

“I know.” Malfoy took a step forward. “I know I did, but I’ve—”

“Let me finish,” Harry said quietly, and Malfoy stopped immediately. “You were a part of a hate group that massacred a lot of people.”

“My father—”

“You have excuses,” Harry said. “Reasons for what you did. I know.””

That hungry, desperate look returned.

“You know I still have nightmares? About Death Eaters?” Harry said.

“So do I.” Malfoy’s voice was raw, and Harry turned away.

“I imagine that you do,” Harry said. “I know you did what you did out of fear. I know how young and scared you were, how you were trying to help your family, how you would have done anything for them. That doesn’t change any of the hurt—hurt _you_ put me through. I pity you, Draco. I forgive you. What on Earth could ever make you think that that could be the same as love?”

Malfoy shook his head, a shallow jerk. “I didn’t,” he croaked.

“You haven’t made up for what was done to me,” Harry said. “You haven’t shown me you’re a different person; you haven’t made me trust you. Do you think some cups of coffee would make me know you?”

“You know me.” Sounding so miserable, Malfoy came closer. “You know me; Harry. You’ve always known me. Better than I know myself; you—” Malfoy reached out.

Harry recoiled, and Malfoy jerked back, as though he had felt hot coals, when all he had touched was air. “I don’t know you,” Harry said. “Malfoy, you’re just . . . in school you were this horrible person, but now—now, you’re a stranger. You’re a stranger to me, Malfoy. I don’t owe you anything.”

“I’m not a stranger.” Malfoy started to step forward again, then seemed to think better of it. “I know you don’t love me—I didn’t think you did, but you’re not—we’re not _strangers,_ Harry. We’re—we’re central to each other’s lives; we’re—”

“No,” Harry said. “I’m central to your life. You were always on the periphery of mine.”

Malfoy looked stunned at this, his eyes absolutely wide. “But,” he began, then started again. “But—I tried to be an Auror; I wanted to prove I—I—I’m trying to be someone different; someone you could—”

Harry drew further back, trying not to let his lip curl. The person before him didn’t deserve his disdain, not now. “You tried to be an Auror so I would _like_ you?”

“Well, not—not wholly. My father also hates it, and—fuck it. What’s the point?” Malfoy turned away, his shoulders a spiky little line. “You’re right, Harry Potter. You’re right; you’re fucking—you’re fucking _central_ to my existence. I’m obsessed with you; I’ve always been obsessed with you. I want you right down to my fucking _bones_ , but you know what?” Malfoy whirled back around. “I don’t need you. I can live without you.”

“Right.” Harry crossed his arms over his chest. “Then do that.”

“But I just want you to know.” Malfoy took another step closer after all. “When you’re waking up from nightmares, cold sweats; when you’re jumping, because Apparition is too loud, or someone casts a spell unexpectedly; when you’re panicking, because people are yelling, and it feels like they might fight. When it feels like you can’t breathe, when you don’t know what to do with your hands, when you wake up crying and you don’t know why—” 

Malfoy had come quite close now, and Harry had found himself falling back, startled by the strange light in Malfoy’s eyes, the overwhelming intensity of that gaze.

“When that happens,” Malfoy said, “know that there’s someone else who knows it all, feels it all, went through it all, and that someone loves you. He loves every particle of you, every damned infuriating piece of you, and he accepts you. Every fucked up inch of you. You could do anything, Potter, and there will still be someone who knows you and wants you for exactly what you are.” 

Harry’s mouth was dry. “You need to move on, Malfoy.”

“I do,” Malfoy agreed. “I’m never going to. Never. Do you understand that?”

“You’re not being fair,” Harry heard himself say, and Malfoy finally backed away.

“Yes, I am.” Malfoy straightened his posh robes, shoulders down now, looking more relaxed. “You don’t have to do anything, Potter. Like you said, you don’t owe me. I just wanted you to know.”

“I already knew,” Harry said.

“Did you?” Malfoy said carelessly. Then he turned and left the room.

*


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I have 7 more chapters. Yes, I did say there would only be 8 chapters total. I'm having a rough time with writing.
> 
> Thank you to buildyourwalls, for her charity donation that started this fic. I'm sorry I'm taking so long. Thank you to icmezzo and seraphcelene, who did writing nights with me, and without whom I would not even have this much to share. Icmezzo was also writing a fic and seraphcelene has been the writing partner I could not be me without. And thank you to siemejay, who was my cheerleader and never fails to make me feel good.

*

**Part II**

*

Harry usually came to stay at Rombe Pickle in late August, before the start of the terms at both the Academy and Hogwarts. This year the visit had a different flavour, as Teddy had graduated Hogwarts.

“I guess we should talk at some point,” Harry said.

“Not really my forte,” said Teddy, but he put down his enchanted guitar.

Andromeda was a very industrious woman who was always busy doing industrious things: knitting, gardening, periodically running a Squib kindergarten as well as competing in magical cycling, which she said was the real reason the other members of the Black family had stopped talking to her. _Narcissa wouldn’t ride a cycle, and Bella always lost,_ Andromeda had said.

This morning she had a pottery class in the village down the hill. “You kids stay active!” she had intoned, heartily, before she’d swept off on her broom. Harry had spent the morning not thinking of what to say to Teddy, until the not-thinking and not-saying had become so _active_ he had to think or say something or else go crazy.

 _If you’re anxious about it, plan it out_ , Kavika would say, but things didn’t always work that way. For one, Harry didn’t always know if he was anxious. He hadn’t thought he was anxious, but Teddy was just looking at him in that quiet, flat-mouthed way he had.

Teddy had chosen to be bald today. That should’ve made him look older, but it didn’t; it made him look younger than his eighteen years. When he didn’t change it, Teddy had a wide brow and a narrow chin, giving his whole face a sharp, lean look that Harry thought shouldn’t remind him of a wolf. Nothing about Lupin’s lycanthropy had been hereditary, but the look was still lupine anyway. Teddy’s eyes were green today, bright and burning, flicking down to Harry’s hand, which was touching the scar on the back of his other hand.

Harry stopped fidgeting. If Andromeda hadn’t been due back in the afternoon, this silence could last for days.

“Good talk,” said Teddy, bending to pick up his guitar again.

“Sorry, I’m . . .” Harry didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want Teddy to be an Auror, but Teddy had already decided; Harry didn’t want to fight about it or make Teddy feel unsupported. What if he said something that made Teddy feel like he couldn’t make his own choices, and okay; Harry was anxious; this was anxiety; this was a thing he had, now. This was a part of his life. He probably could have still faced down a dragon without blinking, but when faced with his own _godson_ , hold the Floo, call the press, bring in the Aurors; he couldn’t even—

“It’s okay.” The corner of Teddy’s mouth had quirked up at him, and Teddy was putting down the guitar again. “You want to talk about me going to Academy? We can talk about me going to Academy.”

“No,” Harry said.

“Cool.” Teddy picked up the guitar again.

“I mean, I want to talk about you going to Academy.”

“Cool.” Teddy put down the guitar again.

“But I don’t want to talk about you _going_ to Academy. We already talked about you going, and you decided to go.”

“So are we talking or not talking?” Teddy asked. “See, I’m sort of thinking about picking up my guitar, but given the past experience, I might have to put it down again. Don’t get me wrong; I hear the Combat class is brutal. Guitar-lifting will probably help my build muscle mass.”

“I’m not brutal,” Harry said.

“Cool,” Teddy said.

Harry looked down at the guitar. “Okay, maybe I’m a little brutal.”

“So guitar-lifting is a sports discipline for Aurors?”

Looking back up at Teddy, Harry met mirror images of his eyes and wondered if this was what his looked like—a little too intense to keep eye contact for long. Harry kept it anyway. “It’s your decision. The Academy. We don’t need to talk about that anymore. I meant we could talk about—the classes. What you’re looking forward to. That sort of thing.”

“Cool.”

Harry still felt anxious. He looked around, then remembered how fresh air could help. “Want to go outside?”

“Sure,” said Teddy, standing up. 

Harry followed Teddy toward the door.

Rombe Pickle was in the midst of an orchard; the apples were not quite ripe but would be in a few weeks, still hard and green now in their twisted branches. The stone house was on top of a little slope, at the bottom of which stood a knot of other stone houses and hundreds of apple trees all readying for autumn. 

Harry took a deep breath of the crisp air, then another, already feeling better, more relaxed—now that he was outdoors, now that he had identified the conversation he wanted to have, now that Teddy knew it too. Teddy would have had any conversation Harry wanted and would have remained calm and soft-spoken throughout, but that was part of the problem. Teddy could be so even-keeled that Harry worried he might not always say when he was hurting, if he was hurting.

Glancing at him as they walked through the orchard, Harry saw that Teddy looked at ease, but he almost always looked at ease. “Do you think you’ll try to climb the Timothy Tree?”

Teddy shrugged. “Don’t know.”

Harry nodded. “Are you worried about Combat being brutal?”

“Oh, no,” Teddy said. “I think I know the instructor.”

“So you’ve got a leg up,” Harry said. “Does that bother you at all?”

“Nah,” said Teddy. “I feel like he’s a rather fair bloke.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “You can tell me. If it gets—awkward.”

“Oh, not to worry.” Teddy quirked a brow. “You’re never awkward.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “What courses are you most interested in?”

“Music, obviously.”

Teddy knew the Auror Academy did not teach music. They’d talked about the fact that it didn’t—Teddy had an interest in composition; Harry had been hoping Teddy would study that, or something else peaceful that did not involve politics or anti-non-mag bias or getting killed. “Right,” Harry said. “Those battle guitar courses, where we destroy the dark arts with the power of song—those are always our most popular courses.”

Turning his head slightly toward Harry, Teddy gave him this pleased little smile, as though happy Harry had gone along with this very bad joke instead of making a protest. “Must be why Draco Malfoy’s repeating Level One,” he said. “The power of song compels.”

Harry looked away. “I don’t control what Malfoy does.” 

Teddy walked along the garden path, letting the silence of their speech broadcast the sound of their steps. 

Harry took off his glasses. Summoned his cloth. Cleaned the glasses. “He didn’t pass the first time,” Harry said, putting them back on and Banishing the cloth. 

“He re-applied.” 

“Right. I don’t see how that will help him pass.”

“He was a Death Eater,” Teddy said.

“And?” Harry said, when nothing else seemed to be forthcoming.

Teddy shrugged. 

“You think that’s why he didn’t pass?” Harry asked, surprised.

“I thought we were talking.”

“You want to talk about Malfoy having been a Death Eater?”

“Not if you don’t,” Teddy said. Harry thought about whether he wanted to talk about it, but after a minute, Teddy went on. “Some people say if Draco Malfoy can be an Auror the war is ‘truly behind us.’”

“I’m not sure that’s what it means.”

Teddy shrugged again. “Other people say that the people who want to put the war ‘truly behind us’ want to make purist ideology mainstream again.”

Teddy was calmly walking along, mostly looking at the ground, hands in his pockets. “And what do you think?” Harry asked.

“Well, I don’t want purist ideology to be mainstream.”

“And the war?” Harry asked.

“Wars end when we forgot they happened.” Teddy said it as easily as he said everything, the way one observes that the sky is grey, and it will rain.

Teddy had been born out of war, even if he had lived his life in something as close to peace as their world could get. Sometimes Harry felt they were the same that way, children of a war that occurred before their time.

“Draco Malfoy tried to visit here,” Teddy said suddenly.

Harry stopped, but Teddy just kept walking. He’d walk all the way to the village, if Harry let him, then sit on a stile and wait for hours because he assumed Harry just needed to catch up. “When?”

“A few times,” Teddy said, acknowledging that Harry had rejoined him on the path with only a short little glance. “A few years ago.”

“Oh,” Harry said, relieved. He’d suddenly had visions of Malfoy befriending Teddy in order to get closer to him, but a few years ago would have been before Malfoy’s new little obsession had started. Wouldn’t it? “What do you mean, he ‘tried’?”

“Gran,” said Teddy.

“She stopped him?” Harry said, surprised again.

“She said she’d forgive him if he asked.”

“Then what happened?” 

Teddy shrugged again. “He didn’t ask.”

They walked all the way down to the village after all. Andromeda, who was just getting done with her pottery class, suggested they race back up the hill—so she did, on her broom, while Teddy and Harry followed her back up at a leisurely place. “Slow pokes!” she declared, once they were back in Rombe Pickle, but she had already prepared tea and sandwiches for them and kept saying “Eat! Eat! Eat!”

“I love you,” Harry said, feeling it suddenly, kissing her on one of her rosy cheek for it. Her husband had died; her daughter had died; all she had left was her grandson, and she was doing her best—her absolute best, with her blustery determination to do everything, and be everything, and protect the little she had left.

“How nice,” said Andromeda. “Eat!”

They ate.

*

Orientation was on a bright day in September, the reporters clustered around the Pallas Arch dressed almost as they might for summer. They were waiting to ask questions about Draco Malfoy and Teddy Lupin, but Harry had brought a broom in expectation of this, and Teddy was unrecognizable upon his arrival, which had always been his main advantage against reporters. 

Usually Harry was happy to return to work, never feeling quite comfortable with nothing to do in the time between Teddy returned to Hogwarts and Academy starting its term. When Harry had first quit the Aurors, he had tried to take time off, but he had spent too much of that time alone with his thoughts. _Humans evolved with an instinct to work,_ Kavika had told him. _It’s all right you need to keep yourself occupied; it’s how we get things done. Just don’t ignore your instinct to rest as well._

Harry wasn’t always sure he had an instinct to rest, but Kavika had been teaching him to listen to his body—when he needed to stop, when he needed to eat, when he needed to sleep. Sometimes he didn’t want to do anything at all, and that was okay. For the times he needed to “keep himself occupied,” he had tried several professions. Teaching at Hogwarts had been only one. It had gone badly.

 _There’s a maxim,_ Kavika had said, one session when they were talking about it. _‘You can’t always go home again.’_ Through session after session, she had helped him see that despite how much he cared for Hogwarts and how many good memories he had there, he had a lot of bad ones too. In so many ways, the Academy echoed what he had loved about Hogwarts—the history and legend and magic of the place, the structure and wonder of the classes. 

But Harry hadn’t fought a war at Academy. He’d never watched anyone get murdered there, unlike Hogwarts, unlike the Ministry. He had only ever found friends and learned new things there, and teaching new trainees felt like the very best of a world to which he could no longer return. It was a safe place because he had fewer connections to it, which was why having Teddy there made the work just a little harder. 

After the orientation, Harry had a meeting with Kavika. “Is there anyone you’re more connected to than Teddy Lupin?” she asked, after he had told her of his concerns.

“Ron and Hermione,” Harry said, sitting in the big cushioned chair across from hers.

“But do you feel responsible for their well-being?” Kavika said.

“Yes.”

Kavika’s face softened, then, as though she had not expected this, her expression turning rueful. “Of course,” she had said, quietly. “I meant, are you their guardian?”

 _Always_. Harry touched the scar on the back of his hand. “So,” he said finally, “I feel like you want me to say no, but we—we protect each other. Even when there’s not . . . you know they’re like me. From the war, I mean. So even if there’s not danger, we still feel like we need to. Keep each other safe. But they’re not my godson. If that’s what you meant.”

“It’s not.” Kavika leaned forward. “Harry, how would you feel if Ron returned to the Academy?”

“He has done. He’s done a guest course on tactics. And there’s the holiday party.”

“Of course. If he returned as a trainee?”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. He rubbed the back of his hand.

“You would feel responsible?” said Kavika.

“Ron can take care of himself,” Harry said. Then he said, “I’m responsible for all the trainees. I’m an instructor. I’m meant to keep them safe”

Lips twisting, Kavika put her elbows on her thighs, leaning in closer to him. “Harry. Do you think of the trainees as being unsafe?”

“They’re students,” said Harry.

“Do you think that ‘student’ means the same thing as ‘unsafe’?”

“Trainees don’t know what they’re doing yet.” Harry rubbed the back of his hand. “I mean, they don’t know what it’s like, what the job is like, and they have instructors, but instructors don’t always . . .” Looking down, Harry saw what he was doing, then thought about his words. Smiling at himself, a little unhappily, Harry looked up again. “Are you going to say this is about my time as a student at Hogwarts?”

“I’m not going to say anything.” Kavika sat up again. “You ask these questions yourself. And then I drink coffee. It’s a very good little habit we have, don’t you think?”

Harry’s smile ventured into a real one, but he looked back down at his hand again, reading the words Umbridge had made him etch there with her quill. “Something happened.”

Kavika waited. When Harry didn’t say anything, she said gently, “Shall I make coffee?”

Her question triggered memory, and Harry found himself blurting, “Malfoy brought me coffee.” Looking up to see her reaction, Harry saw an expression of sympathy, which was all wrong. “There were reporters,” Harry went on, rubbing the scar again, “at the Pallas Arch, and Teddy had to disguise himself from them. Then inside—Penelope wanted to commiserate again, about Malfoy, I mean, and then Spragg wanted to put his two Knuts in about Reveal, and Gareth wanted to tell me how terrible all the press is, and the coffee was just waiting there, on my desk. Malfoy didn’t say anything; I didn’t see him. He just left it.”

“And how did that make you feel?” Kavika said. “After what he said to you in May?”

“Angry,” Harry said, then was surprised he had said it, because the point was the coffee had been good. Walking into his office, where he could finally be in the quiet, away from everybody else, and finding coffee hot and waiting for him had been good. Knowing someone hadn’t felt the need to talk to him or greet him or demand things from him, that Harry had got to have this warm sweet little thing just for himself—it had been so good. The only problem was that—“It was Malfoy,” Harry said. 

“He makes you angry?”

“No.” Harry shook his head. “I meant—I don’t want to. Feel. Gratitude. For him.”

Kavika went over to the table, arranging the coffee things. “Did you?” she asked, as she pointed her wand to boil the water in the teapot. “Feel gratitude?”

 _I must not tell lies._ “That wasn’t what I was going to tell you,” Harry said instead.

Kavika spelled the beans to grind, getting out the cups she always used, the small pot with the long handle, where she put the grounds, then spelled the water, leaving it to steep.

“Afterwards,” Harry said, watching the elegant movements of her hands, but not really seeing them. “After my part of orientation, I mean. You know how they—the trainees always ask questions. They—they’re not trying to be offensive.”

“Were they?” Kavika said, cleaning out the bowl that held the grounds, putting the teapot away. “Offensive?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You know how they are.” When Kavika began spelling the coffee into the cups, he added, “And how I usually tell them they’re not there to ask questions about my personal life, and how I make it clear I won’t engage.”

“Yes,” Kavika said, floating Harry’s cup over to him.

“Thanks,” Harry said, taking it gratefully.

“How did it happen this time?” Kavika said, taking her own seat with her own cup, then taking a slow sip.

“The same.” Harry sipped his coffee, then realized how that sounded. “But different. It was actually the same,” he added, then started again. “What I meant was, one of the trainees asked if I stopped being an Auror because—I had PTSD. And I said what I usually do: ‘That’s between me and my therapist; this class is for training, et cetera’—but I could see Teddy’s face. You know how he is. Quiet. He’s used to me and—reporters. He’s fine letting me handle it.”

“But this time was different,” said Kavika.

“I think because—because these were his peers, asking the questions. He doesn’t usually see—he just sees the reporters. He doesn’t see how sometimes it’s everyone; everyone thinks I’m this . . . he doesn’t see that as often.”

“How was it when you visited him at Hogwarts?”

“Different.” Harry set his coffee down again. “I didn’t really see him with groups of students. Usually just Icarus, or maybe a few other close friends. They didn’t—they treated me more like . . .”

“A human?”

Harry nodded.

“You think he was upset by the people around him asking these questions?”

“I know he was.” 

“How?”

“I know him. I could see it.”

Kavika looked at him keenly. “But that wasn’t what you wanted to tell me.”

“Right. It was . . .” Harry rubbed the back of his hand. “It was Malfoy. He was there—because he’s Level One again, obviously—but he was there, and he was standing by Teddy, and he just, sort of . . . touched Teddy’s shoulder.” Harry didn’t know why what had happened made him feel so uncomfortable; it wasn’t even a big thing. It was not a big thing. “And then someone asked me whether I’d really told Teddy I didn’t want him to be an Auror.” 

“Teddy was still there?”

Harry nodded. “Most people don’t know what he looks like. Which is a good thing,” he added. “The Metamorphmagus thing. I think he would have got harassed a lot more otherwise.”

“Harassed,” Kavika said, sipping her coffee.

“You know what I mean.”

“Only you don’t call it that, when people do it to you.”

“I call it that,” said Harry, because he really didn’t like the press.

Kavika set her coffee down. “And then what happened?”

“Teddy was upset. He was going to—I don’t know; he was going to step in. Defend himself. Defend me, I guess, but then Malfoy, he—said something to him. To Teddy. He said something, then they left. Together. I think—I mean.” Harry stopped to take a sip of coffee. It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t a big deal; he didn’t know why it made him feel this way, off-kilter, as though he did not quite know his own world. “I asked Teddy what Malfoy said. He said Malfoy told him to chill.”

Kavika appeared to mull this over. “This bothers you?”

Harry gave her a look. “Teddy says _Malfoy_ told _him_ to chill. Malfoy’s never been chill a day in his life. And Teddy’s always chill.”

“You think that’s not what Malfoy told him?

Mouth twisting, Harry set his coffee down. “I think Malfoy told him not to make it worse for me.” When Harry looked up again, Kavika had on this calm, placid look, which Harry thought she sometimes did when she was secretly interested. Most of the time she was so genuine with him, but she never shared everything; _that’s the point_ , she’d said once. Harry’s fingers moved over the back of his hand. “Malfoy knew that it would make it worse for me,” Harry said. “If Teddy had got into it with the other trainees.”

“I’m interested in how you know this,” Kavika said. “You believe what Malfoy said in May, about knowing you?”

“No,” Harry said, then thought about it. “Maybe. I know that’s what would make Teddy back off, and I could . . . I could tell Malfoy didn’t want to make things worse for me. Malfoy—I can read him. I’ve always been able to. I’ve always known—” Cutting himself off, Harry pulled his hands apart, placing them on the arms of the chair. “That sounds intimate,” he said. “It’s not. Malfoy is an open book. He’s always been.”

Kavika’s brows went up. “I’m the last person who would accuse your of being intimate with Draco,” she said, quite gently.

“I just mean . . .” Harry shifted uncomfortably. “He’s in love with me.”

“Yes.”

“It’s . . .” Harry shifted some more. “I don’t feel that way. The way he does. It’s—and he’s doing these things—the coffee. Teddy. What if he expects—? I mean, nothing would happen, even if he did expect it; it’s just . . . it’s . . . _embarrassing_. I’m embarrassed. He’s embarrassing.”

“If he’s making you uncomfortable,” Kavika said, “you can ask him to stop bringing you coffee.”

“Yes, well.” Harry frowned, disgruntled. “I can’t ask him to stop talking to Teddy.”

“No,” Kavika agreed, “but if you think he’s doing it for your attention, you could tell him how it makes you feel. See what he says.”

Harry reached for his coffee again, running his finger up the side of the cup, feeling the warmth through the pounded copper. “Maybe he didn’t,” he said at last. “Do it just for my attention, I mean. Maybe he—he was just . . .”

“Trying to help?”

Harry nodded miserably.

“If it makes you uncomfortable, you’re free to tell him that,” Kavika said. “You don’t have to accept someone’s actions just because their intentions are good, Harry. Not everyone deserves the benefit of your doubt.”

Harry kept rubbing the side of the cup. “I don’t want history with him,” he said finally. “I want . . . I sort of want to pretend we don’t have history at all. He’s just someone with a hopeless little crush, and I’m just . . . I’m just a person who feels kind of sorry for him.”

“Then pretend.”

“What?” Harry stopped rubbing the cup, and Kavika shrugged.

“Mental healers talk about facing your feelings, dealing with the truth of the matter, but the truth is that some truths change depending on what you believe, and what you believe can change depending on what you do. Sometimes it is entirely appropriate to act as though the world is as you want it to be. You’d be surprised at how much you can change that way.”

Harry turned this over in his brain a while. “I think I sort of did that last year.”

“Oh?”

“I treated him as a student,” Harry said. “I mean, because he was my student. But I decided to just work on that, instead of—all the rest.”

Kavika smiled. “Did it work?”

“Well.” Harry smiled back. “He didn’t pass my classes, so maybe I didn’t do a very good job.”

“You can hardly blame yourself if Draco is a poor learner.”

 _He was very good in Povey’s class_ , Harry suddenly found himself wanting to say. “He’s miserable at Dark Arts,” he said instead.

Kavika’s mouth twisted. “How ironic.”

“I actually find it reassuring,” Harry said, and Kavika laughed.

“Do you know, so do I?” she said. “There are factions who think that Draco Malfoy joining the Auror Department would make the Auror Force more sympathetic toward neo-purists who dabble in dark arts. If that’s the case, at least Draco won’t be much help to them.”

Harry thought about the Chamber of Fires, the members of the Board who had wanted Harry to pass Malfoy. They weren’t dark wizards, however—purists, maybe, but not about to cut off pieces of their souls or stage a military coup. They were just a bunch of old rich pure-bloods, upset the world was changing. “I’d think I’d know if Malfoy was going to join a murder cult,” was all Harry said. “I knew it the last time.”

Kavika gave him an arch look. “Then we should be grateful you find him so easy to read. I have barely any experience with Draco, but the father—I would not say he’s terrific at Occluding, but still, he can be inscrutable.”

“Lucius is the worst,” Harry said immediately.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“That’s all the ways of putting it,” Harry said. 

Kavika smiled again. “I have a tendency to agree, but this is neither the time nor place for a proper analysis of the Malfoy family tree. Do you want to talk about Teddy being at Academy?”

“I’d rather talk about how Lucius is the worst,” Harry said, but he consented to the subject change, and they spoke more of Harry’s godson, and what it meant to have someone he loved be a student, training for a profession that could get him killed, or at the very best, break his heart.

*

Early autumn yellows bled into bright mid-autumn orange, the sky still sometimes startlingly blue against leaves the colour of fire, the scent on the air crisp with apples and the earth wet with dying leaves. Classes at Academy were not very much different than they had been the year before, but Harry felt different, less at ease with Teddy there, nervous for him in ways that even Kavika could not help him fully understand.

Then there was Malfoy, tall and blond and doing much better in Wandless Combat. This made sense, and Harry felt that he should have expected it—Malfoy had already had a year of training, after all. But Malfoy had been such a poor student that Harry hadn’t realized how much Malfoy had retained; he knew all of the techniques—the holds, the feints, the ways to move. Even if he could not execute these things as well as someone who naturally excelled at physical combat, he was ahead of the rest of the trainees, and for the first few weeks Harry had been startled to see it.

 _Pretend,_ Harry remembered, the first day the hand-to-hand combat segment of the class began. Malfoy hadn’t just mastered all of the holds, but was sharing his experience with his partner, helping his partner correct the holds when they weren’t quite right.

Malfoy’s partner was Teddy.

_Pretend._

Harry had told the Level Ones to find a partner they could work with for the next few weeks, same as he did every year when Wandless Combat progressed into hand-to-hand. The trainees had all been moving about; Harry hadn’t really seen how Malfoy and Teddy had ended up together—whether they had been the only two left, whether Malfoy had actively sought Teddy, whether Teddy had been reluctant to join Malfoy or indifferent. Harry probably would not have been able to tell. Teddy always looked indifferent.

As the trainees continued to practice the holds, Malfoy and Teddy continued to perform a cut above the rest, and Harry thought about what he would do for any other trainee who was doing particularly good work. He’d been walking between all the pairs of sparring partners, helping them with their techniques and offering pointers. When he finally came to Malfoy and Teddy, he stopped.

“Lupin,” Harry said. “You’re giving yourself space and breathing really evenly, which is really good. Just remember to protect your chin.”

“It’s been mentioned,” Teddy said, with a small ironic twist of his lips, but he adjusted his stance.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, turning to Malfoy. “You’re doing well.”

“That’s also been mentioned,” Malfoy said in his light, quick way, and it made Harry realize he had barely talked to Malfoy since the start of term. Maybe a few times in classes, to give him assignments or comment on his work. “Everyone mentions it all the time,” Malfoy went on, “how well I do.”

Had Malfoy talked to him? Of course, Harry had heard Malfoy’s voice; Malfoy occasionally spoke to the other trainees, but not very often, and—had Malfoy even addressed him once, since the start of term? He did his work in class. He appeared to pay attention to instruction. He turned in the few written assignments, but there had been nothing—no visits to Harry’s office, no comments after class, or even in it. There hadn’t even been those lingering gazes Malfoy used to give him, which in retrospect, Harry realized had been blatant assessments of his body. 

There’d been nothing—except the occasional cup of coffee, sitting in a warm bubble of magic on Harry’s desk.

“And?”

Harry, who had been turning away, turned back. “What?”

“What’s the critique?” Malfoy asked.

“I didn’t have a critique.” 

Malfoy made a face. “How am I meant to improve?”

“Practice?” Harry said. “Your form is perfect; if you keep at it, it’ll come more naturally.”

Pink immediately bloomed in Malfoy’s cheeks, spreading like a stain down to his throat. He didn’t have good skin—sort of splotchy and spotted—and the bloom of colour only emphasized how pale he was. Malfoy tossed his head. “It already comes naturally.”

“Wow,” said Teddy, in his smooth, flat way. “Not what I heard.” He had on a little smile, which was surprising. Teddy sometimes teased people, but Harry had only ever seen him do it with affection.

Malfoy had whipped his head around to glare at Teddy, but the violent flush was already fading from his cheeks. Harry had a class to teach, and the other sparring partners were stopping to look at them.

“Let’s move on to the next exercise,” Harry said to the class. He moved away, but when he looked again, Teddy still had on that little smile, and Malfoy was on his knees so that Teddy could reach him for the chokehold from behind.

*

Malfoy was often by Teddy’s side, for some reason—in Wandless Combat, but then sometimes Harry saw them in the corridors—not always together, but a few times. He even once saw them talking together under the Timothy Tree, its leaves a carpet of brown and red at their feet, Teddy’s hair sunny blond next to Malfoy’s duller colour. Teddy sometimes unconsciously mirrored people he spent time with in physical appearance, but Harry had never seen Teddy do it with anyone he didn’t like.

There was a time when Harry wouldn’t have asked, when he didn’t want to interfere in his godson’s life, didn’t want Teddy to feel dictated to, about who his friends could be. Teddy’s closest friend at Hogwarts had been Icarus Zabini, a member of Slytherin and niece to Blaise Zabini, and Harry had been glad. Now, however, he knew that asking would not hurt, as long as he was careful and aware of the possibility. “Are you and Malfoy friends?” he’d asked finally, doing his very best to make it sound as though he had no judgment about the answer either way.

“That seems like a strong word,” Teddy said.

“What word would you choose?”

Teddy seemed to think about this a great deal. “Do I have to choose one?”

“You can have as many as you want.”

Teddy nodded, still seeming so thoughtful. “Fellow,” he finally said.

Harry waited for elaboration, but Teddy didn’t say anything more, and they were silent for a while, clearing the dishes from the table, settling in for coffee. After brunch, Andromeda had gone to teach her Squib class, leaving the two of them behind at Rombe Pickle. Harry always had brunch with Andromeda on the third Sunday of the month, and now that Teddy was staying there instead of at Hogwarts, Teddy had joined them. Seeing his godson so frequently was wonderful, and yet Harry also felt further apart from him, and he couldn’t quite understand why.

“What word would you choose?” Teddy said a while later, as though there had not been a break in conversation at all.

“What?”

“For Draco?”

 _I certainly wouldn’t use the word ‘Draco’_ , Harry thought, but he didn’t say it. “Trainee,” he said finally.

Teddy nodded. “You know, there are rumours.”

Harry suddenly became aware of his hands. He wanted to fidget but resisted; Teddy knowing about the way that Malfoy felt shouldn’t be embarrassing. _Stop thinking of what you_ should _feel_ , Kavika would say. Merlin, it was embarrassing; it was humiliating; Harry didn’t know why. 

He was humiliated _for Malfoy,_ Harry realized suddenly.

“For one thing,” Teddy said, “he doesn’t seem that interested in politics.”

“What?” Harry refocused.

“The rumour,” said Teddy. “That Draco’s at the Academy because old school pure-bloods want influence in the Auror force.”

“Oh.” Harry pointed his wand, directing the coffee pot over to the table, directing it to pour more coffee, then turning it toward Teddy.

“Thank you, no,” Teddy said. “I’ve assignments to do.”

“Which class?”

“First Aid and Minor Magical Healing. I think Draco really respects you.”

Harry’s hand froze on his coffee mug. Possibly Teddy should be corrected, but Harry didn’t want to talk about how Malfoy was in love with him, and this was pity, Harry realized. He felt humiliated for Malfoy because he pitied him. Harry almost felt compassion for him, the way he had for Snape, the way he had for Voldemort, the way Harry had for Malfoy sixth year, when Malfoy was so helpless and afraid. At least Malfoy being in love with him meant Malfoy was consistent in attempting the impossible.

“He thinks of you as a person.” Teddy was still just sitting there behind his empty cup of coffee, his face so calm and unperturbed.

Harry rubbed the back of his hand.

“I think not everyone does,” Teddy said. “And it reminds me that Draco’s also a person.”

Giving his hands something to do, Harry reached for his coffee again.

“I didn’t used to think of him as a person,” Teddy said. “He was a Death Eater.”

Harry looked down at his coffee. The still black of it could be comforting, sometimes.

“And that reminds me we’re all people. You. Me. Every single one of us.”

 _I love you,_ Harry thought suddenly, overwhelmingly. 

“We’re all fellow human beings,” said Teddy. “It’s easy to forget. Also, Draco likes Critical Stink, so that’s cool.”

Teddy had to know Harry didn’t know what on Earth Critical Stink was, except that Harry could guess, and the guess was so—strange. He’d never imagined Malfoy listening to music, but of course he did. Malfoy was a person. A person. “That’s a band?” Harry asked, just to confirm.

“Only the most influential band in wizarding music of the nineties.” 

“Okay, but mostly that was before you were born.”

Teddy looked affectionate, which on Teddy was generally just a small curve of his lips, but because it was on Teddy, that curve looked so happy and so good. “It’s okay, Harry.”

“I love you,” Harry said.

The smile tugged up a little more.

*

November came with grey, rain, and the Dementor lesson that Harry always taught in Level One ADADA. 

“Malfoy,” Harry said after the class, as the trainees were heading out of the room. “Stay here a moment.”

Malfoy looked as though he wanted to scowl at him, then swallowed it instead. Without saying anything, he stepped aside, letting the other trainees pass him by. Though Malfoy’s eyes followed Teddy, Teddy didn’t even look at him, and when the trainees were all gone, Malfoy still didn’t look at Harry.

Harry sat down on the edge of his desk to wait.

At last, Malfoy’s head swung toward him, his gaze intense and unblinking, just as it always was. “Come on, then,” Malfoy said, his voice unexpectedly soft. “Let’s have it.”

Harry took off his glasses, began to clean them. “Maybe you should tell me.”

“Nope,” Malfoy said. “You’re the one that wanted me. Say it, so I can go.”

Harry finished cleaning his glasses. “You know what I’m going to say.” He put his glasses back on, meeting Malfoy’s stare.

As if unable to stand the gaze, Malfoy looked over toward the door. “Then why do I have to be here?”

“Because you’re not going to pass this class,” Harry said, “and I try to help trainees who are struggling.”

“Been there, done that.” Malfoy’s voice was bright, like a joke. “You’re the reason I can’t do it, so what help could you possibly be?”

“I’m not the reason you can’t cast a Patronus.”

Malfoy’s sharp gaze sliced back to him. “Would you like to wager?”

Harry stood up. “You need to deal with it yourself, Malfoy. It’s your own problem.”

“Then why are you offering to help?”

“I didn’t say I wanted to help you with your Patronus,” Harry said. “I want to help you decide what to do. You’re never going to pass Level One if you can’t cast a Patronus, not if I have anything to say about it.”

“‘If you have anything to say about it,’” Malfoy repeated stiffly. “You do know you’re in charge of the course, right?”

“To some extent.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You breathe humility out your pores, Potter. Don’t cake false modesty on top. Let it breathe.”

“You’re one to talk,” Harry said, and Malfoy stared at him.

“I don’t have a modest bone in my body,” Malfoy said at last.

“But you act like such a victim,” Harry said. “Just because I won’t pass you.”

Malfoy took a step closer to him, then another. “I’ve never been anyone’s victim.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said gently.

“I meant since—” Malfoy cut himself off, face contorting. He drew back. “I haven’t, since then. I’m not.”

“You said I could crush you,” Harry said, his voice still soft. “Last year, when we had this same conversation. You said I could crush you, and no one would care. Now you’re going on about all this power I have—”

“No one cares if I’m an Auror.” Malfoy’s voice was rather loud, but then his features twisted again, and he spoke more normally. “I know who my father is,” he said tightly. “I could have anything money could buy; I could be anything he wants me to be. The difference is, _I_ want this.” Malfoy stepped back toward him. “ _I_ want to be an Auror. Me. I don’t want to buy it; I don’t want it to be given to me; I want to earn it. Just one thing, for myself, that I did, that he doesn’t want, that—”

“Are you sure he doesn’t want it?”

Malfoy’s face went blank. “Want to talk about Dad now?”

“No.” Harry looked at him carefully, but Malfoy seemed so perfectly sincere. At the end of last year, Harry had concluded Malfoy hadn’t known that the Board had been lobbying Harry to change Malfoy’s scores, but the idea that he hadn’t found out—that he hadn’t heard the rumours, at the very least—hadn’t occurred to Harry. Either Malfoy had become a much better liar than he used to be, or he didn’t know. “You honestly don’t think there are people who want you to be an Auror?”

“Right, because so many other Death Eaters are clamouring to join the force,” Malfoy said. “It’s against everything they ever stood for.”

Harry’s brows went up. “Is that why you’re doing it?”

Malfoy shrugged. “At least it’s something he won’t buy for me.”

Something closed around Harry’s heart, and he realized once more that it was pity, warmer than before. “And no one else would buy it for you either?”

“First of all, _you_ can’t be bought,” Malfoy said, counting off on his finger. “That’s a point in it’s bloody favour. Second of all, who? Third of all, why? All they want is for me not to be an embarrassment to the whole . . .” He made a frittering gesture with his hand—“pure-blood establishment. No one’s dowager aunt wants a scion of the Malfoy line to be in law enforcement.”

“There are things happening within the current administration that that kind of pure-blood dowager aunt doesn’t like,” Harry pointed out. “Having a someone from an Old Blood family in law enforcement could provide a form of leverage.”

“Leverage for what?”

Harry shrugged. “Name it. Lining pure-blood pockets, locking non-mag-borns in prisons, et cetera, et cetera.”

A kind of hardness lived on Draco Malfoy’s face that Harry hadn’t noticed before; he only noticed it now because it all fell away. Malfoy looked so soft in that moment, and rather hurt. “You really believe that I would . . . ?” 

Harry didn’t know what to say.

The hardness came back, like a shield. “Those rumours are a fantasy, cooked up by Reveal extremists who want to ruin our way of life.”

“‘Our way of life.’” Harry understood all too well the cold feeling that came over him upon hearing that phrase; he did not understand the disappointment he felt. It was all he could have expected, from Malfoy. “You mean a way of life in which non-magicals are inferior, and they shouldn’t enter our lives or touch us at all, and those who associate with them are also inferior. That way of life?”

Malfoy just gave him this look. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“No, Malfoy. What did you mean?”

Malfoy just stared at him again. When he finally spoke again, his voice was unexpectedly light. “I’m not a Death Eater. I regret what I did. What my family did. I’m sorry for it. I’m ever so _fucking_ sorry; would you like me to get on my knees?”

“What would you do there, Malfoy?”

Malfoy ground his teeth.

“No, really,” Harry said. “I’m curious. Would you beg forgiveness in one moment, then champion your _way of life_ the next? I’m so interested to hear.”

Lifting his chin, Malfoy said only, “I don’t beg.”

“Pity.”

“You’d like it, wouldn’t you,” Malfoy said, sneering.

“What I’d like is to believe you don’t think you were wrong just because you lost. Can’t you see that that ‘way of life’ is the reason we got into it with Voldemort in the first place?”

Malfoy flinched at the name, but he still spoke in that light tone. “You really think Conceal is the same as wanting to kill non-magical people? I want them _not_ to be killed. What do you think will happen, when we drop the wards? When we lift the Statute? They’ll be terrified of us, just as they always have been. What in the world makes you think that the kind of sentiment the Dark Lord stirred up against non-magicals won’t come back a thousand-fold when non-magicals start burning witches at the stake?”

“I wasn’t talking about Reveal,” Harry said.

“I was!”

“Reveal is a risk,” Harry said. “We can all agree about that. But don’t give me this shite about pure-blood ‘way of life’. If you don’t think there are pure-bloods out there who want to destroy the current administration any way they can, you’re being wilfully ignorant.”

“I never said that,” Malfoy said quickly. “Did I say that? Now who’s being wilfully ignorant? For once in your life, _listen_.”

“I’m—” _listening,_ Harry was going to say, but Malfoy was already talking over him.

“Of course there are extremist bigots,” Malfoy said. “On the pure-blood side. I shouldn’t even say extremist; I shouldn’t use the same words I would for Reveal nutjobs, because pure-bloods are so much worse than some political—there were _Death Eaters_ , Potter. Don’t you think I know that?” Malfoy came closer. “They killed women and _children_ , and there are people out there still like that. Do you think I don’t know? Blood supremacists, purists, twisted psychopaths who think our world would be better if non-magical people were all killed off—or enslaved, as Grindelwald would have it. I know. I know they’re out there. I _know._ ”

Malfoy was close now, and Harry could feel the desk behind him. He’d have to move Malfoy out of his way physically, if he wanted to get away, and a strange light was in Malfoy’s eyes.

“But those people,” Malfoy went on. “Those terrible people—they don’t want me to be an _Auror_. Why do you think I want to be an Auror in the first place?”

 _I just asked you_ , Harry wanted to say. Malfoy had told him he wanted to be an Auror because his father didn’t want him to.

“I want to _stop_ them,” Malfoy said. “Terrible people like that, and other kinds too. I want to _stop_ people hurting each other and killing each other over ideology that’s—over any ideology! I want to stop people killing each other, and hating each other, and—and being cruel! You think that’s what Death Eaters _want_? You think they _want_ me on the force so I can _stop_ them? Potter, there’s not some secret cabal, covertly cheering me on, installing people like me in the Ministry. I’m here to _stop_ people like that.”

Oh.

Oh, fuck. 

“This is _my_ choice,” Malfoy said. “Mine. _I_ want to be an Auror, no one else. Me.”

Harry’s heart had grown so suddenly swollen with pity that it felt heavy in his chest. “And the Board,” he said thickly.

“Just because they approved my application—”

“Malfoy—”

“—doesn’t mean I’m a little pure-blood puppet. Maybe, just _maybe_ I did well enough on my application that I—”

“Draco.”

Malfoy stopped, his mouth hanging wide open.

“Draco,” Harry said again, softly now. “They tried to force me to pass you.”

Malfoy’s jaw snapped shut.

“Last year,” Harry said. “I said I wouldn’t pass someone who couldn’t reliably cast a Patronus. They wanted me to move you up anyway.”

“But you didn’t,” Malfoy said. “They didn’t—I—you failed me.”

“I failed you,” Harry agreed. “They told me not to. They said they could move you up anyway. I said I would quit if they did.”

Some of the hardness fell away again, leaving Malfoy looking a little naked. His face was so much softer this way, kinder almost. There was a sweetness in the shape of his mouth that Harry hadn’t noticed before. “You would quit, rather than pass me?”

Harry’s eyes snapped back up to Malfoy’s face.

Malfoy’s voice was a husky croak. “Seeing that I fail was that important to you?”

“Okay,” Harry said slowly. “So now we’re making this about you? And the part where I told you there _is_ a secret cabal, secretly trying to install you in the Ministry—that means nothing?”

Possibly it did mean something; Malfoy’s eyes were bright, as though he might cry. Maybe he was already crying, angling his face away, so Harry could only see the angle of Malfoy’s jaw, the white line of Malfoy’s throat, the lacing of Malfoy’s elegant wizard frock coat, up to the throat.

“You can’t cast a Patronus,” Harry said, more gently now. “It wasn’t personal.”

“It never is,” Malfoy whispered. “For you, with me. It’s never personal for you.”

“No,” Harry said.

Sniffing, Malfoy turned to look at him defiantly. “May I go?”

Suddenly Harry wanted to talk to him—about the Board arguing on Malfoy’s behalf; Harry wanted to know what Malfoy thought about it, whether it bothered him. Harry _wanted_ to hear that it bothered him, that Malfoy would not have accepted their interference, that he would have been ashamed of it, disgusted by it, that he would reject it and condemn it as anyone rightfully should. Harry wanted to hear that Malfoy really was a different person, that he could stand up for once, and do something brave. “You don’t need my permission,” Harry said instead.

“Right.” Malfoy sniffed again. “Maybe I’ll go ask the Board.” Jaw hardening, he turned and walked away, leaving Harry behind to think about what it felt like to be used—even after all this time.

*

“We made it,” said Ron. “Another year.”

“We’ve got ten minutes.” Hermione’s head was leaning back against his shoulder. They were sitting in the garden at The Burrow in a magic bubble of heat, where Hermione had Transfigured a lawn bench into a comfortable couch, and the three of them looked up at the stars. Out by the barn, beside the chicken coop, the children, Charlie, George, Arthur, Andromeda, and the Thomases were fiddling with fireworks, while Ginny and Angelina whipped their way between spurts of fire on broomstick. Percy and the Johnsons appeared deep in conversation, possibly about the danger of fireworks; Molly and Dean were in the kitchen, and Fleur and Bill were likely off somewhere snogging. For the first time, Teddy wasn’t spending New Year’s Eve with them; he had a party with his friends from Hogwarts, and Harry, Hermione, and Ron were virtually alone in their corner of the yard.

“Just so.” Ron smiled at Hermione. “Anything could happen in ten minutes.”

“For instance,” Hermione said seriously, still looking at Ron, “Harry could tell us about Vinicius.”

“He could,” Ron agreed. “Do you think he will?”

“I think he’ll feel pressured by this conversation,” said Hermione. “I think he’ll realize it’s wrong to leave his friends out of the loop.”

“There’s no loop,” said Harry.

“He says there’s not a loop,” Ron told Hermione.

“Interesting,” Hermione said. “Do you think he’ll tell us what happened after the holiday party?”

“You know what happened after the holiday party,” Harry said.

“Do we, though?” Hermione looked up at Ron.

“Yes,” Ron said affably. “Sex.”

“But was it _just_ sex?” asked Hermione. “Do we know that part?”

“He said he’d tell us,” Ron said. “If it turned into something more.”

Hermione finally looked at Harry. “Did it turn into something more?”

“I said I’d tell you,” Harry said.

“We believe you,” Ron said.

“Mm-hm,” said Hermione.

Harry sighed. Vinicius had become an Auror shortly after Harry. They had begun to be friends in the early years Harry had been a part of the Auror force, but they had lost touch when Vinicius had become a liaison with MACUSA when Baggot had retired from the force. After ten years as a liaison, Vinicius had asked to be transferred back to the UK and had re-joined the Auror force. He hadn’t really remained in touch with Harry during his absence, but at the holiday party Vinicius had been charming and handsome. He’d had a crush on Harry before he’d left for the States, he’d admitted. When he’d invited Harry back to his flat, Harry had thought, _Why not?_

“I don’t have feelings. For him,” Harry added, when he realized how that sounded. Then he thought about having feelings, and what Kavika said about sharing them, and went on, “It would be nice to.” Then because that wasn’t clear: “Have feelings.” Then because that still wasn’t clear: “For someone.”

Ron gave him one of his encouraging smiles. “It’s okay, Harry.”

“It was a joke,” Hermione said.

“No, I get that.” Harry’s hand moved over his fist. “I just meant—I don’t know why I can’t . . . meet someone and feel that thing you’re meant to feel.”

“Simple,” Ron said. “All witches and wizards already know each other. There’s, like, twelve of us. There’s no one left to meet.”

“You’re not ‘meant’ to feel anything. You feel what you feel.” Hermione turned to Ron. “And if you do feel something for someone, Harry, it doesn’t have to be for a witch or wizard; it can be a non-magical person. There are more than twelve of them, last time I checked.”

“Right,” said Ron. “Sorry.”

“But it’s easier,” Harry said. “It’s easier to be with someone if they’ve been through—if they know about it. The wizarding world.”

Ron shrugged. “Fairchild seems to be making it work with Mark.”

“Er, okay,” said Hermione. “But I’m not exactly suggesting you bring a non-mag you’ve been dating two months to the exclusive holiday party filled with magical UK’s entire fighting force.”

“Mark was nice,” said Ron.

“Two months is too soon,” said Hermione.

“Yes.” Ron smiled. “We’ve heard.”

“I’m saying, we need to be careful,” said Hermione. “If people break the Statute willy-nilly, it makes the Deal that much harder. It’s already hard enough as it is.”

Hermione had said that the UK had voted to leave the European Union, which meant that the EU wouldn’t need to be as involved in Reveal, except that the whole departure situation seemed almost as complicated as the Deal.

“You don’t think Fairchild and her boyfriend should wait until they’re engaged,” Ron asked, “like the Statute says?”

“Of course not,” said Hermione. “I just think two months is too short. And that they should have been discreet about it.”

“Yeah.” Harry’s hand moved over his fist. “I don’t get to be discreet.”

Fairchild was a Level Two trainee who had brought her non-magical date to the holiday party, and it had caused quite the scandal, on top of several other scandals of the evening—one of which had been Harry chatting with Vinicius, since the wizard press had immediately begun ‘shipping’ the two of them.

Hermione covered Harry’s hand with her own. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Harry gave her half a smile.

“We could sic the Rita Skeeter-lites on Malfoy, if you want us to,” Hermione said. “At least he deserves the trolling.”

“Don’t you kind of think he’s already being trolled?” Ron asked. “By his future mother-in-law.”

Taking her hand off Harry, Hermione shrugged. “He could always use a bit more.”

“At least it takes the pressure off you,” Ron said, nudging Harry. “In more ways than one, right?”

Malfoy had once again brought Astoria Greengrass to the Auror holiday party as his date. While the gossip of the holiday party had been dominated by Harry and Vinicius or Fairchild and Non-Magical Mark or the rumours that pure-bloods were actively sabotaging Shacklebolt’s coalition using Imperius—Gardenia Greengrass had attempted to remind everyone what the Auror institution was truly about. She had announced her younger daughter’s impending nuptials to the Malfoy scion almost as if in response to the other things, as if to say that despite blood corruption—or homosexual relations between wizards—pure-blood lines would prevail.

Malfoy and Astoria’s answers about the wedding date had been vague, though Lionel Greengrass had said he had hoped Malfoy would be “through with the Auror business” by the time the deed was done. Lionel hadn’t seemed to recall that at the annual Auror ball, such a comment might not seem in good taste, but he had had perhaps a bit too much to drink, as had Gardenia Greengrass possibly as well. Malfoy and Astoria had seemed even less pleased than Lionel about the announcement of their engagement, but to most observers, it would not seem obvious why. After all, perhaps they just wanted to keep their romance a secret, and all Harry could think of was Malfoy saying, _Someone loves you, every particle of you, no matter what you do._

“It doesn’t take the pressure off me,” Harry said.

Ron’s little smile fell away.

“He won’t follow you around any more like a lovesick puppy,” Hermione pointed out. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

“He hasn’t been following me,” Harry said. “He’s done nothing so far this term. Nothing.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a pure-blood married a pure-blood even though they were in love with someone else.” Ron’s voice was gentle. “Sometimes it works out. Over time. Malfoy might . . . get over it.”

 _Never,_ Malfoy had said. _I will never, ever move on._

“Probably not if he’s gay,” Hermione said.

Harry hadn’t really thought about that. The Greengrasses had been drunk, and even though Harry hadn’t been falling in love with Vinicius, pretending that he was had been far more pleasant than thinking about anything to do with Malfoy. 

“He didn’t choose,” Harry heard himself say. “None of it is his choice.”

“Marrying Astoria?” said Ron. “You never know. Maybe that pure-blood fortune was too good to pass up.”

“No,” Harry said. “He doesn’t want to marry her.”

“I forgot we had the Malfoy-whisperer over here,” Hermione said.

“He’s just—doing what he always does,” Harry said. “What they tell him to.”

“He _could_ choose to do the right thing, for once,” said Ron, unimpressed.

“You’re right,” Hermione agreed. “In the end, never choosing to go a different way is also a choice.”

“It’s harder.” Harry’s fingers played with the locket Ron and Hermione had given him, underneath his shirt, against his chest. “It’s harder when everyone around you has a personal stake in your own life. When everyone around you knows what you should be, and you don’t know yourself.”

Ron’s shoulder pressed against Harry’s, warm and sure. “No one said you couldn’t feel sympathetic, mate.”

“I don’t exactly—it’s not sympathy. It’s . . .” Harry wondered. Was this pity? Wishing that Malfoy was strong enough to be someone different? “It’s regret.”

“You did make different choices,” Ron said. “You came out on the other side.”

“But not everyone does,” Hermione said, understanding.

Above them, the sky lit in a burst of gold firecracker, filling the sky with a glowing light that shone on Hermione’s face, tilted up, and in Ron’s hair, blazing just like fire. _We’ll always be here,_ Hermione had said, when he’d quit the Aurors, and she and Ron had given him the locket. _No matter where you go or what you do, we’ll be there._

 _And we’ll love you,_ Ron had said. _Don’t forget that part._

 _I was getting to that part,_ Hermione had said, slapping Ron on the arm.

 _And we’ll never leave you,_ Ron went on, because once he had left over a locket, and ever since coming back, he had stayed. 

_Never._

Without Ron and Hermione, Harry would not have been here to make any choices at all.

Another firework broke over the sky. Taking his hand off the locket, Harry put his arm around Hermione.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone who has been so kind about the long delay in updates, particularly buildyourwalls.
> 
> Thanks again to icmezzo and seraphcelene, without who this would not have been written, and to siemejay, without whom there would be many typos and less loveliness in the world.

*

Harry spent a few days of the week before term started with Vinicius, who was an attentive lover and an excellent cook, but seemed rather too interested in Harry’s Auror exploits and heroic deeds as a seventeen-year-old for Harry’s comfort. As with most of his other partners, Harry was reluctant to spend the night, as he was more prone to nightmares whilst sleeping beside another person, and he didn’t exactly feel comfortable at the prospect of explaining them to yet another person who didn’t understand them. 

Vinicius seemed satisfied with the arrangement, though obviously interested in Harry. Maybe it could work out, if they got to know each other better. Maybe deeper feelings would come with time.

Harry spent the rest of the week at Rombe Pickle with Andromeda and Teddy, who didn’t seem eager to return to the Academy, but Teddy had never seemed eager to return to Hogwarts either. He never seemed eager to do anything in particular, but he never seemed un-eager, and every day at least four or five owls swooped in from the orchard bearing notes from friends who missed him.

“You really loved Hogwarts, didn’t you?” Harry asked one day, as Teddy received his third owl.

“The school?” said Teddy.

“The ice cream flavour,” Harry said.

“Ah, yes, the time-honoured flavour of ink and Mrs. Norris,” Teddy said.

“That cat shouldn’t still be alive.”

“Well.” Teddy’s voice was thoughtful. “I think I’d prefer ice cream that tastes like live cat over ice cream that tastes like dead cat.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Harry said.

“I’m always open to talking about dead cats.” Teddy waited a while, and then without inflection, said, “I guess you meant the school.”

It was Harry’s turn to wait.

“Because of Dad,” Teddy went on.

Harry waited some more, and at last Teddy shrugged. “You always told me it wasn’t Dad. Just an echo.”

“You can still miss him,” Harry pointed out.

“Oh, I do,” Teddy said. 

“Is that from Icarus?” Harry said, nodding at the paper in Teddy’s hand. “I’m glad you’re keeping in touch with Hogwarts friends.” 

Teddy’s brow did its incremental furrow as he glanced down at the letter. “This isn’t from a Hogwarts friend.”

“I just meant, you first met Icarus at Hogwarts. Obviously, you’re more than school friends.”

“It isn’t from Icarus,” Teddy said. “It’s from a friend I met at Academy.”

“Malfoy.”

Teddy blinked. “Believe it or not, I met several other people at Academy.”

Harry needed a moment to catch up. “It’s not from Malfoy?” 

“No,” Teddy said slowly.

“Oh.” Feeling unsettled without quite knowing why, Harry began, “I just—I just assumed . . .”

Teddy waited. When Harry didn’t go on, Teddy’s voice was all patience. “You assumed I became pen pals with an ex Death Eater who tried to get Hagrid fired? Multiple times?”

“Wow. I don’t even really remember that. On his list of crimes.”

“Draco remembers.”

“You mean he told you? About trying to get Hagrid fired?” 

“He tells me all sorts of things,” said Teddy. “The man has regrets.”

“Regrets.”

“Don’t you?”

For some reason, Harry kept thinking about Malfoy at the holiday party, impeccably dressed in dove grey and a deep green, the way he had looked after Gardenia Greengrass had announced his betrothal. Malfoy had become so pale, strained about the mouth. The man was too bony. Last summer, when he had been telling Harry he would love him forever, Malfoy had had colour in his cheeks. He had looked vital, alive. 

“We all have regrets,” Harry said.

*

January term started on a grey and dismal day, and Harry longed for coffee. He had skipped La Reve in hope of arriving early enough to avoid chit-chat with the other instructors, but unfortunately, that meant he was probably also too early for a cup to be waiting on his desk. Harry didn’t like Malfoy doing it in the first place, and he didn’t like how his own expectation of it was becoming habit. 

Still, Malfoy probably had to get here quite early to leave the cup on Harry’s desk without being seen. He could be here already.

As if on cue, a voice echoed down the corridor as Harry entered Bickford-Buckley. It sounded as though it was coming from the cloakroom, which was verified as Harry drew near. The voice grew louder—not trainee conversation. Shouting.

“ _Scourgify!_ ”

Harry entered the cloakroom to find Malfoy facing the empty pegs on the stone wall, where trainees hung their cloaks and books, above which were placards with the trainees’ names. Today, above the placards, scrawled in a thick, messy brown substance that had been wet once, but now was dry and flaking, read the words _Muggle Lover._

Harry’s heart rose into his throat. The blank space where it used to be hollowed into a cavern inside him.

“ _Evanesco! Immaculaterate! Tergeo!_ ” Malfoy’s voice was climbing in pitch as he frantically waved his wand at the wall.

Harry took a deep breath, then took off his glasses and began to clean them. He focused on the ground under his feet. The scents of mud and blood. The sound of Malfoy yelling.

“ _Scourgify! Scourgify! Scourgify!_ ”

“How’s that working for you?” Harry said at last.

Malfoy jumped, whirling. “Merlin, Potter, you scared the bezoars out of me!” His eyes swept over Harry. “Are you following me?”

“I work here.”

“In the cloakroom?” 

“You were yelling.” Putting his glasses back on, Harry moved ahead of Malfoy, closer to the placards on the wall. The message was scrawled across multiple placards, but the target was obvious: Regina Fairchild. Harry remembered the holiday party, where not everyone had been a pure-blood power couple announcing marriage with the sole intent of making more spoiled, privileged pure-blood babies. Fairchild had brought her Non-mag boyfriend. Harry turned back to Malfoy.

“I didn’t do it,” Malfoy said quickly. 

“You think I thought you did this?” Harry asked.

“Don’t you?” Malfoy lifted his nose. “I’m only at Academy to further my pure-blood agenda, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. That’s exactly what I said.” Harry turned back to the wall, because breathing and listening and smelling had at last brought his heart back into the correct place, which wasn’t exactly helpful. He felt distant, now, instead of present, which he had learned wasn’t good for your _emotional well-being_ either, but Kavika had said it could be okay. _It’s acceptable to create space for yourself. Just don’t create so much space that you find yourself alone._

The memories that surfaced as he looked at the wall felt detached, like someone else’s memories: blood on the wall at Hogwarts. The casual conversations in the cloakroom of the Auror Department about the helplessness of non-magical people. The occasional remark, among political officials, that of course the violence of Voldemort had been wrong, but some pure-bloods really had a point when they said non-magical and wizarding culture were essentially incompatible. Harry had wanted to be a teacher partly so he could stop this. He should have known it would follow him here. 

_There are like twelve of us_ , Ron had said.

“Are we waiting for Fairchild to come and admire the art?”. 

“We learned about dark sigils early in the term.” Harry turned back to Malfoy. “You’ve taken that part twice now.”

Malfoy gave him a stare, the eerie one, eyes too intense for this early in the morning. “You do think I did it. Of course. I should have signed my work; I should have thought my elegant penmanship would have been recognizable to—”

“Malfoy,” Harry said, and Malfoy abruptly stopped. “I already said, I know you didn’t do it.”

A wall went down, swiftly, schooling Malfoy’s face to blankness, as though being trusted was a graver insult than falling under suspicion for something heinous. 

“I meant,” Harry went on, “you should know how to clean it off.”

Malfoy said something, his voice so light that Harry had to ask him to repeat it. “I said I don’t know how,” Malfoy said, still in that light, quick way. “Must have skipped class those days.”

Malfoy had never skipped a single class, and Harry thought Malfoy might get his wish of falling under suspicion after all.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, then turned away to look at the wall. “Potter,” he said, starting again. “If I was any good at excising dark sigils, do you think I’d still have the Dark Mark on my arm?”

“You can’t get it off?”

“Oh, no, I keep it on for fun. It’s excellent for parlour conversation.”

“This one is much simpler,” Harry said, turning back to the wall.

“Great. Fun. Is this a pop quiz? You should have told me. Is it because of my special history? I’d like to call Evil Uncle Rodolphus as a lifeline.”

“You could ask your future father-in-law,” Harry said, but he didn’t know why he said it. Maybe he’d been trying to provoke some kind of reaction, but beside him, Malfoy turned frosty. Giving up, Harry at last turned to look at him again.

Malfoy’s eyes remained fixed forward. “Astoria is the kindest, most honourable person I’ve ever met. Please don’t—don’t think badly of her. Whatever you think of me.”

“I wasn’t trying to . . .” Harry trailed off, because he still didn’t know what he’d been trying to do. Sighing, he took out his wand, pointing it at the wall. “ _Tergeo_ ,” he said, and the blood lifted out of the writing, floating like a red circulatory system without a skeleton before Harry Banished it. Only mud was left behind, lighter in colour, drier, flaking more.

“Tried that. Didn’t work for me.” Malfoy’s voice was careless. “Must be because you’re the Chosen One. Does blood know? ‘Ooh, he’s so powerful; he’s so brave; we’ll do what _he_ says.’ Does all blood do that for you? Or just pure blood? Or is it bigot blood? Have you tried it with mine?”

“You have to cast it with a feeling,” Harry said, once Malfoy was quite finished. “Like you do when you’re casting a Patronus.” 

Malfoy’s face changed.

Harry wished he hadn’t mentioned Patronuses to Malfoy.

Taking out his wand, Malfoy pointed it at the wall. “ _Scourgify,_ ” he said and the writing disappeared. Slipping his wand back into his sleeve, Malfoy said, “Counterforce.” 

“Yes,” Harry said.

“Because of the blood,” Malfoy went on. “They could cast a sticking charm that had the force of feeling behind it, because it involved body or soul. Like an Unforgiveable. Like a Patronus.”

“So now you’re telling me you didn’t skip class?”

“You had to figure out which part of the sigil had the force of feeling and use the opposite feeling to remove that part. Remove the blood with its sticking charm; then you can remove the mud, no problem. How did you know there was blood in the mud?”

“Er,” Harry said, in case this was a trick question. “Because the message was about blood purity?”

Malfoy stared at him for a moment, then abruptly moved down the wall. “Right, I forget, I’m not a criminal mastermind, like some of us.” Malfoy’s things had been dropped in a pile on the floor, Harry saw now—his cloak and knapsack, and now Malfoy went about hanging them up. He must have dropped them as soon as he saw the writing, Harry realized. 

Malfoy really was terrible at understanding dark magic, if he hadn’t realized blood was in the mud. That strange pity welled in Harry’s chest, but just now there were more important things to consider. Harry glanced at the wall, the stones cleaner in one patch, now, than the ones that hadn’t been subjected to Malfoy’s _Scourgify._ “Do you have any idea who did this?”

“I’ll ask all my friends.” Rather forcefully, Malfoy had shoved a book into the knapsack.

Malfoy didn’t have any friends. 

Looking about the room, Harry didn’t see any evidence—mud tracks, or signs that a different student had been there before. A few cloaks hung on hooks, but that was not out of the ordinary; Harry had left his cloak overnight plenty of times when he had been at Academy. “I’ll find the person responsible,” Harry said. “Tell me if you see anything strange.”

“Sure.” Malfoy’s voice was clipped as he swung his knapsack over his shoulder. He picked up the coffee cup that had been sitting beside his pile of things on the floor. Making as if to exit, he stopped by Harry, thrusting out the cup without quite looking at him. “This is for you.”

Harry looked down at it, feeling surprised enough that his blankness returned. “I told you to stop doing this.”

“But you drink it. I’ve seen you.”

“Are you watching me?”

“Have it, Potter. Not everything is symbolic, you know. It doesn’t have to mean anything.” Malfoy pushed the cup against Harry’s hand, and not quite willingly, Harry took it. “I do so enjoy our chats,” Malfoy said, then headed out toward the corridor.

Harry looked down at the cup in his hand. Sometimes, when he needed a quick Patronus, he thought of coffee. The cup was still warm.

It would be a shame to let it go to waste.

*

“Children will be children,” Baggot said, sitting at the head of the table in the faculty meeting room in February, a day after a second message of purist hate-speech had appeared above Fairchild’s placard in the cloakroom.

“Children?” snapped Spragg, infuriated. “These are _trainees_!”

“Trainees, yes,” said Baggot. “It’s very reprehensible. No one wants bigotry. You said it about those Death Eater children in the war. Draco Malfoy. Raised that way. Couldn’t help himself.”

“Malfoy.” Savage snorted. “It was probably him.”

“It’s the _institution_!” Spragg said. “If there wasn’t a permission structure in the Auror Force that allows the persecution of a portion of our population that is weak and helpless and ignorant—”

“Muggles aren’t our population,” Savage said, turning on Spragg and still managing to snort while doing so. 

Spragg went pale. “Don’t use that derogatory term. It’s offensive.” 

Turning back to Baggot, Savage went on, “I’m telling you; it’s probably Malfoy.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Penelope said. “There needs to be an investigation.”

“Yes, it’s very bad,” Baggot said. “Awful things happen. What can you do?”

“You can stop them!” Spragg said at the same time as Savage accused Penelope: “You’re the one who said we shouldn’t have Malfoy.”

Harry turned away, looking out the window. Between the grey stones of the ancient arched window was only more grey, the sky as hard and unforgiving as the walls that framed it.

“Why is this only about Malfoy?” Penelope asked Savage. “Is it impossible to imagine that there could be _new_ blood purists, instead of old ones?”

“Hilda is only interested in past injustice,” Spragg said in his ever-pleasant voice. “Never present.”

Years ago, in the ancient stone basement that was the Ministry of Magic, Harry had sat in a similar room around a similar table. Harry remembered it now, the claustrophobic feel of it, the feeling that no one was talking about anything that was actually happening, the feeling that he couldn’t change it, even if he tried.

That was after one of the first ward-drops, back when unification with the Non-Magical World was only a glimmer in Hermione’s eye, the Reveal referendum not even a thing yet dreamed. Chaos had followed the ward-drop, as chaos usually did, so cleverly finding its way into the cracks and crevices of culture. The non-mags had been shocked by the drop, suddenly witnessing the Wizarding World in all its glory. Some non-mags had reacted with fear, trying to run away, but instead running deeper into the mayhem. 

A wizard and two witches had sought to drive the non-magical people away using Imperius. Another wizard had cast Cruciatus on the non-mag who had barrelled down the street in their car and into a shop. Aurors had arrived. The wizards and witches casting Unforgivables had disappeared. The wards had been restored, the non-magicals Obliviated. _We need to find the terrorists who dropped those wards,_ Head Auror Robards had said.

_What about the wizard who Crucio’ed that non-mag bloke?_ Ron had asked.

_Wouldn’t have happened in the first place if the wards hadn’t been dropped,_ Robards had said. _It puts non-mags and everyone else at risk._

_Doesn’t casting Unforgivables put non-mags at risk?_ Ron had asked.

_The non-mags are ours to protect,_ Penelope had said, then an Auror. _The wards keep them safe._

_If only we could Obliviate ourselves to forget the existence of Muggles the way we can Obliviate them to forget about us,_ Proudfoot had said. _It’s be nice to forget about them entirely._

Aurors had laughed. Ron had been furious. Harry had felt as though he wasn’t present, as though he was at a table of Death Eaters, Charity Burbage floating above them; as though he was at the kitchen table in Number Twelve. The Order of the Phoenix talked about fate, but they were not the ones to change it; they were not the ones to die. Harry was at a kitchen table in Privet Drive, but he was not the one to sit at it. Vernon and Petunia and Dudley sat; they ate, but he wasn’t meant to join them. He did not belong.

Here, now, Leck Hall, Baggot was speaking. “Of course we’ll conduct an investigation. Obviously, it’s a bad thing. Sometimes bad things can’t be stopped. Sometimes, you have to work with what’s there.”

“What’s here?” said Spragg. “You mean a purist culture that makes future Aurors think they can—”

“What makes you think it’s a trainee?” Penelope demanded. 

Harry didn’t belong. He didn’t belong here in the same way he had not belonged at a table of Aurors in the Ministry of Magic, in the same way he had not belonged at a table in the kitchen of Number Twelve with the order of the Phoenix, in the same way he had not belonged at Privet Drive. They weren’t his family. He didn’t want to sit around and talk about it.

He wasn’t even meant to be alive. He should have died in that forest; he should have died a thousand times. Sometimes, before his eleventh birthday, Harry used to think, _Why wasn’t I in the car? When it crashed. Didn’t Mum and Dad want me with them?_

Penelope was still talking, and Harry tried to focus on the words, the sound of them, the smell of the room, all that breath, the taste of it. “Isn’t the one who did this more likely to be an outsider, rather than a trainee?” she was saying. “There are still Death Eaters out there who—”

“Boggarts!” Spragg finally lifted his voice, making Harry jump a little. “It’s so _convenient_ when there are monsters who identify themselves with Marks and masks. Don’t you see? The monsters are in your house!”

“Why do we always need to argue?” Povey asked. “Why can’t we just handle this like any other issue of discipline?”

“That’s what it is,” said Baggot. “An issue of discipline.”

_That’s what this is,_ Robards had said four years ago. _An issue of border security._

Sometimes when Harry thought about the kitchen table, serving Vernon and Petunia pot roast, he imagined the car, the flash of lights, the abrupt jolt, a swift black and then a silence. Sometimes when he thought of Voldemort now, Harry could feel the Aveda Kedavra, the flash of green. The scent of wet pines in the Forbidden Forest. Narcissa Malfoy’s white face among the trees. He could feel it now, the jolt, what it felt like to die. 

Standing up, Harry walked over to the window. The outside grew as he came closer, expanding to include the horizon of Buckley-Bickford on the opposite side of the courtyard, then the courtyard itself. Behind him the voices went on in a dull ebbing roar. The faculty was used to his abrupt disengagement. Usually Penelope came to him and said, _I know. Aren’t they awful?_ and then continued the argument.

Leck Hall was so old that no panes filled the window, the cold February air blocked by ancient spells rather than glass. The day was dismal, the courtyard the brown of winter with only a few tufts the muted grey-green of England. The Timothy Tree stood barren at the centre of the courtyard, its tall, reaching branches like a bouquet of bones. 

Inside, the air was hot and close with too many bodies, too much talking, too much carbon dioxide. It was loud with breath and speech and resentments of too many years, too many different opinions, too many different ways of looking at the world. Baggot, who thought things could go back to the way they were before the war; Savage, who thought the war was still happening; Penelope, who thought she was the only one who understood the real dangers of now; Spragg, who was so convinced the problem was within that there were never any other enemies; Povey, who thought everyone could just get along if no one ever voiced a dissenting opinion. 

Harry floated between then and now: Robards, who saw crimes only when they threatened his status quo; Proudfoot, who ardently believed the protection of non-magical people meant forgetting they existed. Ron, who still thought he could be an Auror and do the right thing; Hermione, who still thought that she could be in the Ministry and do the right thing. Shacklebolt, who still thought that he could form a coalition; Greengrass, who was waiting to see which way the wind blew; Lucius Malfoy, who thought he could act like he had no position while secretly working to fund the opposition. Teddy, who still thought he could be a hero in this world.

The Timothy Tree stood silently, alone, living through history and yet not taking part in it, belonging there because there was nowhere else that it could be. How nice it would be, Harry thought, to be the Timothy Tree, with its branches reaching up from you to the sky, alone in the wet cold air, tasting the scent of dirt and rain and grass. 

“What do you think, Instructor Potter?”

Penelope’s voice cut through a fog.

“We should investigate,” Harry told the outside air.

“See?” Penelope said, excited. “Like I said.”

“So, we find out who did it, and then what?” asked Spragg. “It’s not addressing the larger problem of—”

“If you didn’t spend so much time talking,” Povey said. “we could get something done.”

“We don’t want to be drastic, now,” Baggot said.

“Because no one’s been drastic to Fairchild,” Penelope said. “What’s a little blood supremacy now and again? We need to find out who’s doing this!”

“What, so they can get a slap on the wrist?” said Spragg. “When will you realize the institution is broken?”

Penelope whirled on him. “When will you realize you are _part_ of the institution, and that kind of rhetoric does nothing to help?”

“It’s Death Eaters that are the problem,” said Savage. “They _should_ have all gone to Azkaban. After the war—”

“No one cares about the war!” shouted Povey.

Penelope whirled on him next. “We _should_ care about the war!”

“You weren’t in the war!” Savage thundered at Penelope. “You don’t even know!”

“The war is over!” Baggot raised his hands.

_Wars end when we forget they happened_ , Teddy had said, and the war raged on within the room.

_Outside, there is more oxygen._

When Harry moved, he could not tell whether they saw him. When he reached the door, he could not tell whether they tried to stop him. He did not feel as though he was there at all, winding down the stone steps, striding down the stone corridor, pushing on the wooden door, into the cool winter air, across the stone walkway of the cloisters, onto the dead grass. 

Harry wasn’t looking, and so he didn’t see Malfoy until he was just a meter from him.

Apparently, Malfoy hadn’t seen him either, because Harry stood there frozen for a moment before Malfoy noticed him, both of them on their way to the bench beneath the Timothy Tree. Malfoy stopped, his mouth falling open in unguarded surprise.

He was going to start _talking_ , and Harry couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t bear it. “I’m not,” _equipped for this_ , Harry needed to say. _I need to be alone. Just_ leave me _alone_ , but he couldn’t say it. To say it took too much energy, to reveal it took too much vulnerability, and Harry wanted to reveal that least of all to Malfoy, who might treasure such nakedness, or—worst of all—try to comfort him. Harry looked longingly at the bench, then away.

“Sit down,” Malfoy said dismissively.

“I think,” Harry began, then stopped again, looking at the bench, and away.

Malfoy’s hand wrapped around Harry’s forearm.

Harry’s gaze immediately snapped down to it, and only then did he realize he’d been standing there at least a minute, rubbing the scar on the back of his hand.

“Sit down,” Malfoy said, still in that careless way, pulling Harry with a firm grip.

Harry sat.

Malfoy pulled out his wand in a fluid movement, turning with it to cast—Notice Me Nots, Harry realized. He felt so grateful that he didn’t know how to tell Malfoy that no matter how many shrouding spells you cast, most people still noticed a whole tree, especially a famous tree that everyone knew was there. 

A cup of water appeared in front of Harry’s glasses. He looked up in surprise. Why was Malfoy always supplying him with liquids? _Look after your body_ , was another thing that Kavika told him to do in times like these, besides try to get outside, besides _breathe deeply_ , and _notice your surroundings._

_Focus on what your body needs._

Harry took the water. Malfoy wasn’t looking at him, already casting another spell.

After another minute or two of casting, Malfoy sat down. Harry didn’t want him there; he wished he’d leave. Harry was trying to do his exercises—breathe and smell and listen and see. He couldn’t smell Malfoy. He couldn’t hear him breathe. When Harry extended his senses, he couldn’t even feel Malfoy’s warmth beside him. Somehow Malfoy was perfectly still, like a statue beside him.

People use statues for protection, Harry thought idly, and it wasn’t bad, to have someone there and not-there. In a way it felt like Kavika, the way he could drink coffee with her sometimes, and she wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t pressure him to say anything. She would just be another presence, almost a reassurance that he didn’t have to be anyone particular for her.

Harry finished the water, then put it on the bench, beside his thigh. Malfoy didn’t take it, just sitting there in silence.

Harry felt the cold air. He smelled the wet leaves. The cold of the bench should have seeped into his robes by now, chilling his thighs, but it did not. His body temperature remained his own, as though encased in a bubble. 

Eventually, it began to rain. Harry listened to the dull _thip thip_ sound of it, watching pretty beads born on the grass. The rain did not touch him, and only then did Harry realize the spells Malfoy had cast. “Thank you,” Harry said, turning his head, feeling as though he could speak at last.

Malfoy touched his wand to the cup, Banishing it. “Have a chocolate,” he said, producing a bonbon from somewhere in his robes. It was in a little paper cup, like a proper sweet.

Malfoy reminded Harry so strongly of Lupin in that moment that he thought of the way he had more than once seen Teddy and Malfoy, sitting under this very tree. When Harry didn’t take the chocolate, Malfoy put it on the bench between them and stood up.

_Don’t go_ , Harry almost said, but he didn’t know why. Malfoy went, tall and straight and still unattractive, but Harry noticed something elegant in his shape, something gentle in his gait that almost blurred him, like a ghost. He’d cast the Notice Me Nots on himself, so that even though Harry had known he was there, his presence wouldn’t impose.

The rain continued its monotone of thipping, tenderly curving against an invisible line of air encasing Harry’s form. Eventually the warming spell bled away, and Harry ate the chocolate.

It tasted like Mafoy’s spells, mild and familiar.

*

While the faculty remained divided on how to handle the harassment of one of their trainees, Harry conducted an investigation of his own. Though the person leaving the purist messages hadn’t directly threatened her, Fairchild was understandably afraid to attend her classes at Academy. One day in March, Fairchild found her knapsack, which she had left in the cloakroom during a class, filled with mud. Harry had set up Seeing Eyes in the cloakroom, but apparently, he hadn’t got the angle right. The map Harry had made of Academy, which was modelled after the Marauders’ Map, didn’t keep a record of where people went, only showing people in present time. 

After checking in with Fairchild, Harry went to find Teddy. Word of the other incidents had already long since spread among the students, partially aided by Harry himself, who wanted the trainees to be aware of what was happening in their own training facility. Spotting Harry, Teddy waited while all the other students left his First Aid and Minor Magical Healing class, then approached Harry in the corridor. “Hey,” Teddy said, in typical Teddy fashion, sounding perfectly unruffled. It did not mean that he was unruffled.

“Hi,” Harry said. “I came to see . . . how are you?”

“Fine.” Teddy sounded curious. “How are you?”

“Then you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

Harry didn’t want to be the one to tell him. He didn’t want to be the one to deal with any of it, but Fairchild didn’t have that luxury, and so neither should he. “Someone put mud,” he said thickly. “In Fairchild’s bag. While she was in class.”

“Yeah,” Teddy said. “I heard about that.”

“Oh.”

Teddy was beginning to look concerned. “Are you okay?”

“It wasn’t just—it’s not a bully,” Harry said. “It’s—because of her boyfriend. Because he’s not magical.”

“Right.”

“It’s a blood purist,” Harry said. “At the Academy.”

“Yeah. It’s terrible.” Teddy looked even more concerned. “Are you all right?”

Then it dawned on Harry, that Teddy didn’t know. He didn’t know about blood on the walls and the Chamber of Secrets; he hadn’t been there in a circle of Death Eaters when Cedric had died; he hadn’t watched Nagini slither out of someone who should have been a woman; he hadn’t been at the trials, with Charity Burbage floating above a table. Teddy knew about the war, but he didn’t _know_ , and Harry never wanted him to. That was the whole point.

“Do you think someone’s attacking the Academy?” Teddy went on, brow furrowed. “Do you think it’s like . . . a Death Eater?”

“No. I’m—” Harry felt his throat close. “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

“Sure,” Teddy said. “If you are.”

“Yes.” Harry tried to nod, but _I must not tell lies._ Harry very much wanted Kavika just now, but that shouldn’t be Teddy’s problem. It wasn’t Teddy’s problem. This was happening to Fairchild, after all; she was the one who deserved care and sympathy and a therapist; she had it so much worse. Harry shouldn’t even get to feel—“No,” Harry said. “I’m not doing very well.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Teddy asked, and he was nineteen. Teddy was nineteen, and Kavika was in Beirut. 

For some reason, Harry thought of the Timothy Tree, the gentle rain and chocolate, Malfoy like a ghost beside him. _I still miss your dad,_ Harry wanted to tell Teddy, but didn’t. “No,” Harry said. “You don’t need to do anything.”

“Sure,” Teddy said again. “Maybe I want to.”

“Thanks.” Harry’s hand moved over his fist. “I just wanted—I wanted to see that you were okay.”

The corner of Teddy’s mouth hooked up in a reassuring way. “I’m okay,” Teddy said.

Teddy shouldn’t be the one to reassure Harry; Harry was the adult. “It would be okay,” Harry said, “if you weren’t. If you ever aren’t,” he felt the need to add.

“Thanks,” Teddy said.

*

A few weeks later, Harry caught a glimpse of the cuts on Travers’s arm in Level Two Advanced Wandless Combat. Deciding to keep a special eye on Travers, in case he was in trouble or hurting himself, Harry then noticed the old mud on the edge of Travers’s cloak. Then Harry remembered Travers’s boggart, and other pieces began to fall into place: the fact that Travers still sometimes used the world “Muggle;” the fact that Travers had got high marks in dark sigils; the fact that Travers was sometimes late to class. Blood had to come from somewhere, and enough didn’t add up about Travers that Harry began to keep watch over his dot on the map.

Soon enough, one day when Travers was in the cloakroom at a strange time, Harry was able to catch him in the act of writing another purist message. Even though Travers’s offences were enough to arrest him, Harry was no longer an Auror, so instead of taking Travers straight to Auror headquarters, Harry contacted Ron and informed Baggot. Ron had taken Travers and the various pieces of evidence Harry could supply, but Robards—still in charge of the Aurors—had claimed that because the culprit was a trainee, the Academy should oversee Travers’s charges.

“Except the Board gave him a suspension. A _suspension._ ” April in Kavika’s office, Harry felt like he might sick up. “It’s not even until the end of the term! It’s two weeks. Two weeks! Fairchild’s been harassed over a period of _months_.” Harry could tell he had been grinding his teeth against anger; it wasn’t good. He and Kavika had had arguments before about expressing anger. She told him he needed to let it out; he told her he was tired of being angry. He didn’t want it any longer. _You need to find safe ways to release it,_ she had said. _That’s the only way to let go of it._

“What do they say about it?” Kavika was calmly sipping coffee, just like a _therapist_ , and Harry hated it. He hated it. He didn’t know why he came here.

“Baggot has this line,” Harry said, “about them being kids. ‘Children will be children.’ It’s what the Board says about Travers too. Pillwickle said . . .” Harry shook his head. It was still disgusting. “He actually said to me,” Harry quoted carefully, “‘you wouldn’t want to ruin a child’s life, just because he’d made a mistake.’”

“What do you wish would happen?” Kavika asked.

“Travers should be expelled! Obviously!” Harry waved a hand. “People like that shouldn’t be Aurors!”

“Harry.” Kavika gave him one of the smiles she gave when she was going to say something he wouldn’t like. “People like that _are_ Aurors. You told me yourself.”

Harry gritted his teeth again. “What, you think that justifies it? You think that justifies someone who would do that to a witch—a nineteen-year-old witch, just because she’s dating a non-magical bloke?”

“I don’t think that. You know I don’t.” 

Outside, sunlight was dancing through a green chiaroscuro of leaves. There wasn’t meant to be sunlight; it was April. April was the worst, a time when it should have been sunny and all you got was rain and maybe a bit of humidity for all the effort to be spring. But here was the day, brighter and sunnier than April ever had any right to be. “It was hard,” Harry said finally. “You being gone.”

Kavika had been with her daughter in Beirut for most of the term so far. Kavika’s new granddaughter was having some health problems, so Harry understood why Kavika couldn’t be in England, but at one point, Harry had needed a session so badly he’d suggested going to see her. Apparition and Floo weren’t very helpful crossing water, and Portkeys cost a lot, but Harry had been desperate enough to use his Ministry connections. For instance, Kingsley had to have a Portkey, but Kavika had put her foot down.

_I came out of retirement because there are so few mind healers, Harry,_ she wrote him in an owl, _and you needed help. I didn’t do it to be at your beck and call. You know this. I told you when we began._

Kavika had come out of retirement because Harry had wanted to die, and the scar on his forehead wouldn’t let him. There were four mind healers in the whole UK, and Kavika was the only one he trusted to tell that Horcruxes existed at all.

“I know,” Kavika said now, her rough voice its own version of gentle. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you.”

“I know,” Harry said heavily. “It’s just—this is why I left the Aurors. Shite like this. You go to the people who are _meant_ to help . . . They’re _meant_ to be in charge. They’re meant to have the power to change things, but they don’t want to change anything. Nothing ever changes, even if—don’t you think it should have been different? When Kingsley was Head Auror? And now he’s Minister for Magic, and that should be it, isn’t it? Someone like him, someone who fought in the war, someone who was in the Order of the Phoenix. It should be enough to end blood purism. But it’s not. We’re almost as divided as when Voldemort took the Ministry.”

“Some say it’s worse.”

Harry eyed her. “That doesn’t help.”

Kavika shrugged. “Reveal is about as drastic as slaughtering all the non-mags, to some people.” 

“Because they’re blood supremacists,” Harry said, as though Kavika didn’t know.

“I wasn’t defending the viewpoint, Harry.”

“No.” Harry looked down. “I know. I know. I was just . . . I feel . . .” Harry looked down at his hands, thinking of April, how it was meant to be miserable and instead it was sunny. There was nothing he could do about that. “Helpless,” Harry said suddenly, able to name the emotion.

“That’s very understandable,” Kavika said. “Many people feel that way.”

“I don’t,” Harry said. “Not usually. Or I didn’t feel helpless, during the war. Now it’s . . . . In some ways, the war was simpler. You picked a side, and you stuck to it. Now—I don’t know how to do that.”

Kavika was probably looking at him, though Harry was still looking at his hands. He could feel her gaze in the silence, her warm dark eyes, the slight curve of full lips, which often looked just a touch sardonic. “In a war, you fight the enemy. Outside of direct conflict, the choices are infinite.” 

Harry lifted his head.

Kavika picked up her coffee again, and the clack her bracelets made against each other sounded definitive somehow, like punctuation. “You don’t have to fight the Board of Regents, Harry. You don’t have to do things their way.”

“You mean, because I’m Harry Potter.”

“Last time I checked.” Kavika sipped her coffee. “But you can be whoever you’d like to be.”

“Maybe I can; it’s just . . . what’s the point?” Harry waved a hand, thinking of Baggot, of Pillwickle, of Greengrass. Of Fudge, who had denied Voldemort’s return, and why? Why had he denied the evidence before his very eyes? “Pure-bloods don’t accept when the world is different than they like to imagine.”

Kavika tilted her head.

“It’s as if they _can’t_ ,” Harry said. “They can’t change. They have to do things the way Old Blood families do them. They’re unable to act differently. Are they just . . . born that way?” 

“I never thought of you as deterministic,” Kavika said.

“Right,” Harry agreed, feeling like something was processing in his brain, like he was trying to get somewhere, to a point or something. “Right,” he said again, “no. They think it’s their duty. They think they have to—they have to live up to something. Even if they don’t look up to it. They don’t want to disappoint Dad, or the family name, or the manor, so even when they try, they can’t get out of it; they’re still a part of it; they’re a part of it, the whole pure-blood tradition; they can’t get out of it.”

Kavika smiled a little. “Well, it’s definitely true that no Malfoy wants to disappoint Malfoy Manor.”

Harry opened his mouth to deny that he had been talking about Malfoy, but he had been. Obviously, he had been.

“You said you didn’t think Draco had anything to do with Travers.”

Harry blinked. “He doesn’t.”

“Then why are we talking about him?”

“I don’t . . .” Harry started, then again stopped, because he did know why. _I must not tell lies_ , said the scar on his hand, and he did know. “I didn’t want him to be in love with me. I never asked for it. But if he was . . .” Harry looked up. “If he is, why can’t he change? You’d think it would be enough, if that’s really how he feels. You’d think—it’s meant to be enough.”

“What’s meant to be enough?”

“Love.”

Kavika’s brow knit in slight confusion. “I think I’ve lost the thread of the conversation, Harry. If he had nothing to do with Travers, why are you disappointed in him?”

“I’m not disappointed.”

Kavika just sat there, her brow still raised.

“All right,” Harry said, touching his scar. “I’m disappointed.” Abruptly standing, Harry paced over to the window, looking out of it. “He’s getting married. To Astoria Greengrass.”

“I have some small reason to believe that _you_ won’t marry him,” Kavika said. “For one thing, you’ve told me you’re still seeing Vincius. For another, _Witch Weekly_ reported on it.”

Harry frowned at her. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Only that Draco knows full well you won’t have him. So why should his marrying his second choice be a problem?”

“Oh. That’s not the problem. It’s . . .” Harry looked at the leaves gently dancing in the breeze, the way Kavika had taught him to look—observing details, things he thought he knew already. The thick trunk of the tree outside the window looked still at a glance, but with concentration, Harry could see that it was moved too, by the wind. Branches connected to it moved with the trunk’s movement; twigs connected to the branches moved both with branches and with their own reaction to the wind. The slender stalk of a leaf moved with the combination of all these forces, actions upon it, helpless in connection to something much larger, and yet autumn proved that despite these connections tracing back to the trunk, each leaf was a life, able to die alone.

“He told me he wants to be an Auror because it’s not what pure-blood society expected of him,” Harry said, “but when I told him pure-blood society did expect it of him, he seemed mainly upset that I wanted to fail him. It’s always—it’s so personal with him. It’s about my respect, or his self-respect, when it should be about . . . why can’t they realize there’s something bigger than themselves in the world?”

“You don’t think he’s taken a step in the right direction?”

Harry turned from the window. “A step in the right direction would be admitting who he has been and rejecting that life. Instead, he tries to defend Concealment, and his ‘way of life’, and—and, he shouldn’t marry someone he doesn’t love. It’s buying into it, into everything, a life he’s meant to lead, a life he says he doesn’t want, but he’s doing it anyway.” 

“Perhaps he likes Astoria.”

“No.” Harry shook his head. “He _wants_ me. The way he wants me it’s—I know him. I know him, when he wants something it’s total; it’s complete; he wants . . . He’s marrying her just because he needs to be a pure-blood and make pure-blood babies. What if he’s gay? What if he only likes men? He can’t be. He’s not _allowed_ to be, because there are so few pure-blood families left that they all need to mate and reproduce, propagate, and why? He doesn’t even believe in it, or if he does, he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want it. Love isn’t enough.”

“Love for your mother changed Snape.”

“Sure,” Harry said, “when you had a psychopath who wanted to kill her. But who was he before Voldemort tried to murder me? Who was he, for love of my mum? Who did he decide to be?”

“You want Draco to change for you?”

“No. Yes.” Harry came away from the window, sitting down in front of Kavika. “I want to believe he can change. That people can change. That something, somewhere, makes them care enough about other people who aren’t like them. I want to believe it’s possible—otherwise, what’s the point?”

Kavika was silent for so long that Harry began to play with the Magbricks, just to keep his hands busy. After a minute, he clunked them down on the table. “I mean it. What would be the point?”

Kavika swallowed before she spoke, and when she did her voice was thick, even rougher than usual. “Some would say there is no point. Not in trying to change them. Purist, blood supremacists, Old Blood families. That the idea of hoping they’ll change is a luxury of those in control. It’s a privilege of power.”

Harry sat back. “But what’s the alternative?”

“Destruction.”

“But that’s not . . . what would we do? Kill all the Old Blood families?”

Hitching a shoulder, Kavika said, “Or eradicate the structures that favour them.”

“Isn’t that Reveal? That’s the whole point.”

“Oh, yes. Quite carefully. Within the system. There was a referendum, a vote. A Deal.”

“You’re talking about the ones who are bringing down the wards,” Harry said.

“To some extent. Yes.” Kavika had on her calm therapist face, revealing nothing. 

Harry spoke slowly. “Are you saying you’re in favour of tearing it all down? Without the Deal? Without an agreement?” Kavika did not react to this. “Kingsley’s in charge of the whole Deal.”

Finally, Kavika swept her gaze away. When she spoke, her voice was low. “The Deal’s not going well, Harry.”

“But it’s not as though the Deal is to appease pure-bloods,” Harry said, struggling to understand. “It’s to protect the non-magical people, when the wards come down.”

“If the wards come down,” Kavika said, her voice low.

Harry knew about the problems with the Deal. Kingsley was having difficulty building his coalition, but the referendum had passed. The Ministry couldn’t back out of Reveal now; the only question was meant to be how the ward drop would happen. Wasn’t it? Harry should talk to Hermione. He’d been consumed by the supremacist in the midst of the Academy; he hadn’t been paying enough attention to politics.

“I want to say a political discussion is not helpful for your mind-healing,” Kavika said, her tone changed. Now she wore a rueful smile, though melancholy was still carried in her eyes. “But I’m afraid it’s all related.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, after another moment. “I guess Draco Malfoy seems petty in comparison.”

“I think we’re all petty in comparison,” Kavika said.

“But Malfoy.”

Kavika’s face went softer, warm with something almost like pity and exactly like compassion. “Perhaps that’s why he concerns you so. If he who matters least can change, perhaps that matters most.”

“But he hasn’t changed,” Harry said. “That’s the whole point.”

Kavika only gave him a small smile, and up-turn of her dark lips. “And what did he say to you, near the beginning of term? That he wanted to be an Auror so he could stop Death Eaters, and hate, and violence? He may be marrying Astoria, Harry, but have hope. That’s not the same boy who took the Mark.”

For a moment, Harry felt himself be still, hands and heart and breath. He’d been so distracted by the slurs and harassment at the Academy— _his_ Academy, where Teddy went to school—and by Astoria, and homophobia, blood purity and bigotry, that he had not thought about that in a while. Malfoy _wanted_ to change, even though in some ways, he couldn’t. It was a starting place at least. “Well,” Harry said. “He’s taller.”

Kavika laughed.

Taking off his glasses, Harry slowly cleaned them. “All right, I’m not going to fight the Board.”

Kavika’s face was a blur, but he could hear her smile. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to talk to Lee Jordan.” Harry felt surprised at himself, a little. In the end, he didn’t even need to think to decide what to do.

Kavika just gave him her usual line. “Tell me more.”

Harry did.

*

The next morning, when Harry Apparated to the Academy just outside the Pallas Arch, a crowd was waiting—reporters with their magic microphones and Quick-Quotes quills at the ready. The echoing crack of his Apparition was immediately drowned by the cacophony of questions.

“Are you returning to the Auror Force?” asked one reporter.

“Will you leave the Academy?” asked another.

“At this rate,” Harry said, “I’m not sure I’ll even get into the Academy. You lot have a habit of blocking the entrance.”

“Have Death Eaters returned?” yet another reporter asked.

“Can you give us a statement on Reveal?” asked the first.

“I’m sure Instructor Potter is just as exciting as ever,” a voice said, slicing coldly though the other questions. Malfoy was strolling out from the Pallas Arch, holding a broom tucked under his arm, hands thrust in his pockets. Harry’s heart did that hard thump he now recognized as pity. “But I know for a fact that at least—” Malfoy pretended to count—“six of you are absolutely _dying_ to know what occurred during the meeting between the Diagon Business Association and the Supreme Mugwump, and I just _happen_ to know, seeing as how my father is a primary donor of the Association.”

“Are Diagon Business leaders calling for a second referendum?” one of the reporters called out.

“Malfoy,” Harry croaked. 

Malfoy ignored both the reporter and Harry, continuing to walk toward Harry. “While you’re at it,” Malfoy went on to the reporters, “you could do a tragic human interest article: ‘Unable to Cast a Patronus, Malfoy Scion Fails Again.’ Paired with the merciless machinations of Malfoy Senior, it could be quite a story.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said.

“What does your father say about your insistence on becoming an Auror?” asked another reporter.

“Have you set a date?” asked a third reporter.

“Sure,” Malfoy told the reporters, finally coming to stand beside Harry, still without even looking at him. “I’ll even tell you all about the wedding. It’ll be the purest-blood ball of them all. Here,” he added, finally slipping his hand out of his pocket so that he could release the broom from under his arm. He held it out towards Harry. “This is for you,” Malfoy murmured, then turned back to the press. “I hear the wedding is the first time you’ll see the last three Ministers for Magic all in one place, since before the war,” he went on, then tilted his head, pretending to look thoughtful. “I should say: the last three, unless you count the Dark Lord as a Minister for Magic. I believe I heard that one is dead.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said. “I invited the reporters.”

For the first time, Malfoy turned toward him slightly, broom lowering. “What?”

Malfoy seemed so taken aback that Harry felt another familiar feeling: embarrassment for him, for the effort Malfoy had made to shield Harry from the reporters, for the revelation of its uselessness in front of everyone. Malfoy had sought to distract the reporters once before, and Harry had been grateful for it. Now Malfoy had done it again—out of his twisted love for him, some perverted sense of loyalty—and it had failed. 

Possibly Malfoy deserved to be embarrassed; he’d spent a decent percentage of his life trying to embarrass Harry. Harry still pitied him.

“Minister Shacklebolt accepted the invitation?” a reporter asked, all excitement.

“Rufus Scrimgeour will make an appearance at the wedding?” a reporter from _Witch Weekly_ asked, aflutter.

“Instructor Potter has a statement to make,” Lee Jordan said loudly.

“Yes,” Harry said, turning away from Malfoy, from the broom held in Malfoy’s sagging grip. “There’s a blood purity problem at Auror Academy. Hate-speech has been scrawled on the walls regularly, in mud and blood, which as we know is in itself a message of blood supremacy and bigotry. One of our trainees has been regularly harassed.”

Quick-Quotes Quills scribbled furiously, while shutters clicked over and over again on wizard cameras—click, click, click.

“Which trainee?” a reporter asked, having forgot Malfoy entirely.

“Do you think this is being done by someone within the Academy?” asked Greta Stone, a writer for the _Daily Prophet_.

“Has the culprit been found?” asked Lee Jordan. Lee was the one who had told Harry he better invite all the wizard print journalist as well, instead of offering only the exclusive interview to RevealRadio that Harry had first proposed. _You want it everywhere,_ Lee said. _A single broadcast is really easy for people to forget._

_We had a whole war about it_ , Harry had wanted to say. 

But current events were evidence that the Wizarding World had, in fact, forgot, and Harry had ceded to Lee’s advice.

“The culprit has been found,” Harry said. “They were a trainee.” 

“Who was it?” shouted Stone.

“Is it Draco Malfoy?” asked another—Walter-someone, Harry remembered, the reporter for _Witch Weekly._

“How will the Academy deal with the perpetrator of these crimes?” asked Lee.

Harry leaned into the microphone of the _Daily Prophet_. “Two weeks’ suspension.”

“Is that enough?” asked Lee.

“No,” Harry said. “They should be expelled, to begin with,” Harry said.

“Why isn’t that happening?” Lee asked, holding out his own microphone.

“Why?” Harry leaned into the microphone, speaking loudly until his voice began to echo in an ugly way. “Because the Board of Regents are apparently fine with blood prejudice.”

Question were shouted all at once.

“Why would the Board look the other way?” Stone asked.

“Why would the Board allow blood discrimination to continue?” another reporter asked. They were one of Luna’s, from _Quibbler_ —Nia Kamau, Harry was pretty sure.

“Auror Potter,” said Ichabod Carrow, a reporter for _The Wizard Watcher_ magazine, “I think we can all agree hate-speech is bad, but don’t you think two weeks’ suspension is sufficient for some graffiti?”

_Ignore questions like that,_ Lee had said. _You’ll never win at their game. Stay focused on what you want to communicate._

“I don’t know why the Board is willing to look the other way,” Harry said. “Maybe they’re trying to hide the problem so that funding from mixed blood and non-magicalborns doesn’t get withdrawn.” Harry went on, putting his mouth close to the mic again, creating the ugly reverb. “Or maybe, they’re signalling to Old Blood that blood purists are welcome here.”

A silence. Click, went a camera. Then another one: click, click, click. All the quills began scribbling at once. 

“Are there financial difficulties at the Academy?” asked Stone.

“Why would the Board signal such a thing?” asked Kamau.

“Not all Old Bloods welcome blood purism!” Carrow shouted. “Percival Weasley—”

“I’m not sure why the Board would signal they tolerate blood purism.” Harry chose to answer Kamau. “The only thing I can think is that there are people who are fine with blood prejudice continuing in the Auror Force, just as it exists at Academy.”

“Are you suggesting this problem with blood purity is systemic within the Force?” asked Lee, thrusting out his microphone again.

“Yes,” Harry said into the microphone.

Another silence. Some of the reporters actually rocked back on their heels, stunned.

“Is that why you quit the Force?” asked Walter-someone.

“Is that why you tried to kill yourself?” asked Carrow.

Another silence. 

“I quit because of all the bureaucracy.” Harry’s voice was calm, because he wasn’t really here. He wasn’t thinking. He was letting his body stand there, letting his mouth go off, but he wasn’t inside of it. He was somewhere else, watching it happen. It felt good. It felt fucking great. “All of the red tape. Inability to get things done. You catch a blood supremacist—what does it matter? One of their Old Blood relatives speaks on their behalf. The Wizengamot has always been more interested in protecting the Statute of Secrecy. The work is prioritized in such a way, the Force is built in such a way, you address one blood crime at a time, instead of the bigger strings that control the institution.”

“Are you accusing the Wizengamot of rigging the system?” asked Kamau.

“I’m saying the Wizengamot is part of a system that is rigged,” Harry said.

“We’ve heard this argument from Revealers for years,” Carrow said. “Do you have any evidence to substantiate—”

“I haven’t answered your other question,” Harry said, turning to Carrow. “The reason I tried to kill myself. When you die once, you become obsessed with it. You wonder if you could survive it again. After all, you did the first time. What’s a little AK to the hero of the Wizarding World; am I right?” 

It was a joke. No one laughed. A camera clicked. Then another. Click, click, click.

“I called this press conference because the Board of Regents should have to answer for their behaviour,” Harry said. “They should have to answer for why they allow purism and blood discrimination at their Academy, and why the only punishment for hate-speech is two weeks of suspension. They should have to answer for why the trainee responsible should be allowed to return to Academy at all.”

“Do you still regret that your godson attends the Academy?” asked Stone.

“Thanks for coming,” Harry said. Having said what he wanted to say, Harry moved away, but the reporters—as usual—pressed in.

“Does the Board know you planned this interview?” Carrow asked.

“Harry!”

“What does Theodore Lupin have to say?” said Walter-someone.

“Harry!”

The one shouting his name was Lee, who was waving his broom. Harry made his way toward him.

“Malfoy said to give it to you when you were done,” Lee said, pressing the broom handle into Harry’s hand.

Malfoy.

Harry looked speechlessly down at the broom, so surprised that for a moment, he just stood there. Malfoy had disappeared from Harry’s mind as soon as the press conference started—Malfoy, who had come to distract the reporters. Instead, Malfoy had left the broom.

_I was a Death Eater who tried to kill your friends,_ Malfoy had told him, _and I’m in love with you._

Swallowing hard, Harry straddled the broom, lifting up on it, leaving the reporters behind.

He flew directly through the window of his office, where he had a few hours before his first class. The window could be charmed and the Floo could be shut, but there was no fixing he door. Just as a Notice Me Nots wouldn’t work on a tree everyone knew was there, nor would it work on a door everyone knew how to locate. Harry waited for the inevitable knock, the inevitable instructor barging in, the inquiring trainee.

He waited.

He waited.

No one came. Harry knew why without really having to think about it.

He didn’t know how Malfoy stopped them. He was grateful, nevertheless.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to buildyourwalls, icmezzo, seraphcelene, and siemejay. <3

Six days later, Harry was at Rombe Pickle for Sunday brunch. Brunch was over. Andromeda had rushed off to another pottery class. Harry sat there with his coffee. It was almost gone. Teddy sat there too, tall today and unmistakably blond. Teddy’s features were more delicate than his own, almost feminine. He looked how Malfoy would look if Malfoy were pretty.

“So,” Harry said.

Teddy didn’t say anything, eyes following Harry’s hand as it went down to the coffee, brought it up to his mouth.

“We’re not going to say anything?” Harry asked after taking a sip.

Teddy gave a nod, as though to agree.

Harry waited. “Teddy,” he said at last.

Teddy just looked at him.

“I never said all Aurors are blood purists,” Harry said, because that was how Vinicius had taken it. He read _The Wizard Watcher_ , apparently. Harry hadn’t known. “Ron’s an Auror.”

“Sure,” Teddy said it coolly, but Teddy was always cool. He was the coolest. Sometimes he was too cool for Harry, and Harry didn’t know how to break through that barrier, how to get close, to touch him. He’d never talked to Kavika about it. Maybe he’d never realized it until now.

“The Force drove me crazy because of the politics,” Harry tried to explain. “The way you could never get anywhere. I saw things—really horrible things, and I felt like . . . like I couldn’t stop it, like what I was doing wouldn’t stop it. But that’s partly why I wanted to train Aurors. New Aurors. Different Aurors. It was never . . . I didn’t think of the Force as a supremacist organization.”

“Excellent. What changed your mind?”

“My mind didn’t change,” Harry said. “Ron’s an Auror.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I’m saying—the wizarding world needs Aurors. My parents were Aurors.” Harry tried to think of a way to explain. “The Wizarding World doesn’t have a military. And it’s magic, Teddy. A wizard like Voldemort can find a way to live forever and kill a hundred non-mags instantly. Aurors are meant to stop that.”

“They didn’t stop that,” Teddy pointed out. “You did.”

Harry had to take a second, because yes, of course; he had. “Aurors helped me,” Harry said.

“The Order helped you.”

The Order? Harry had to stop again to process. “Right,” Harry agreed, after a moment, “but it had Aurors.”

“It had some Aurors,” said Teddy. “Other Aurors helped Voldemort.”

“Some of them didn’t have a choice.”

Teddy slowly nodded, but then even as he was still nodding, he said, “Don’t we always have a choice?”

“No?” Harry said, a little confused. “Imperius?”

“You think all the Aurors who helped Voldemort in the puppet regime were under Imperius?”

“Obviously not,” Harry said.

Teddy just sat there, looking at Harry over his plate, where the mess of beans remained brown and sticky, and Harry didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t wanted Teddy to be an Auror in the first place, but not necessarily because the Auror Force was corrupt. Was the Auror Force corrupt? Harry had hated how he wasn’t listened to, how everything was so slow, how difficult it was to bring about change in the larger World.

Harry thought of the Order, which had been so different, which had been so effective—even if, in the end, Harry had been the one who had to die in order to stop Voldemort. At least the Order had been on the right side; at least the Order had done something, but thinking of it now felt wild, a little over the top. A secret organization to stop a sociopathic zealot who had led a coup on the Ministry of Magic? What insanity had Harry lived through, when he was young? What insanity was this whole world, where regimes could be toppled so easily, and minds could be controlled, and the very institution that was meant to stop it helped it happen?

_Are we crazy?_ Harry had asked Kavika last year, after Hermione had told them why the European Union had to be involved in Reveal. _What made us think that we could live separately? That we could build a whole state, under one that already exists? What made us think we would govern ourselves better, while the whole fifteen thousand of us lived secretly under millions we ignore?_

“I thought I was doing something good,” Teddy said finally. 

“You are.” Harry felt helpless.

“Sure,” Teddy said again, in that cool way. “But not good like you, right?”

“I don’t want you to be good like me. I want you to be good like you.”

“Right. Not everyone can save the world when they’re seventeen.” Abruptly, Teddy stood and began clearing dishes—by hand, instead of with magic, presumably so that he could move out of Harry’s sight, over to the sink.

“You shouldn’t have to save the—” Harry had stood up, turned around to face Teddy—whose face had changed to look exactly like Harry had, when he was seventeen. “World,” Harry said, his heart breaking.

“Why do you think I wanted to be an Auror?” Teddy demanded, and for the first time since he was seven years old, he sounded angry.

“Teddy,” Harry breathed. “Why do you think I didn’t want you to be?”

“Because you want to _protect_ me.” Teddy slammed a mug down on the counter. “Why do you think I can’t protect _you_?”

“You can,” Harry croaked. “You do.”

“Then why is Dad still there?” 

Harry took a quick, sharp breath. Before now, he hadn’t really been able to put the pieces together, why Teddy wanted to be an Auror, when he had always seemed so much more interested in things like music or philosophy, when he’d never seemed to like action or a fast pace. As Harry watched, Teddy’s Harry-features melted away into his own, his sharp narrow face and hair the colour of Lupin’s, eyes like Tonks. “He loves you,” was the only answer Harry could think of.

“Right, well. He’s a ghost. He doesn’t even know me.”

“Teddy.” Harry took a step towards him.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Teddy said. “I just—need some time.”

“Don’t,” Harry said, but Teddy was already Apparating, and Harry was left alone in the kitchen, listening to the sound of the dripping sink.

*

The rest of the school year became the exercise of an exhausting ritual. Sometimes, only the coffee that periodically waited on Harry’s desk seemed to give him comfort, and that was only because he didn’t have to see anybody or talk to anyone to have something warm and nice. Which was why, on a rather too blustery morning in May, Harry felt so disappointed to walk into his office and find Malfoy inside. 

Examinations for Level Ones had already been held, and once more, Malfoy had not been able to cast a Patronus for his. Perhaps he was here to beg improved marks, or perhaps he was just leaving a cup of coffee. Harry rather hoped that Malfoy was here to beg, as Harry had never caught him in the act of leaving the coffee before, and even though Harry had known all along that Malfoy was responsible, actual proof would make it more depressing.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, easing out of the comfortable lounging posture he’d taken up at Harry’s desk.

“You’re not meant to be in my office,” Harry said, even though he’d let it slide for so long.

“I have something.” Malfoy did not appear to mean coffee.

“Um,” said Harry, deeply hoping that Malfoy’s begging would not venture into anything untoward. “What?”

Malfoy held up a vial. Harry could tell without a second glance that the swirling silver thread inside was a memory. “Pensieves. Library.” Slipping the vial back into his cloak, he swept toward the door. “You coming?”

“Why would I—?”

“Confidential.”

“What’s confidential?”

“If I told you,” Malfoy said, “it wouldn’t be confidential. Come along.”

“I’m not a Crup,” Harry said, but Malfoy was already brushing by, walking out the door, as though he expected to be followed, and Harry didn’t know why, but he was following him. “Malfoy,” Harry said, catching up and walking beside him, “you can’t just come into my office whenever you want. I have office hours. If you want to talk about your marks—”

“‘Talk,’” Malfoy said. “Cute. Do you say that to all the students you’ve failed?”

“Is that what this is about?”

“No. The fact that I botched your exam is not confidential. It is, in fact, highly public knowledge.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“It kind of is.” Malfoy kept talking in that annoying way, as though he didn’t give a damn about anything. Maybe if Malfoy could _admit_ he cared about something, he wouldn’t have such a problem casting a Patronus, and then he wouldn’t be failing. Anyway, Malfoy’s failed exam was absolutely the least of Harry’s concerns just now.

Reporters had been breathing down Harry’s neck since the press conference. Meanwhile, half of the faculty eyed him suspiciously, as though he had betrayed them, while Spragg was so delighted Harry could hardly bear him. Many of the trainees felt as Teddy did. 

_But this is why we have an Academy_ , Harry tried to tell them. _So we can learn to be better_. Some of them really seem to listen. Others acted as though he had lost their trust. Some of these feelings redounded to Fairchild, a fact which seemed doubly unfair given her mistreatment, and which seemed to prove Harry’s theory of the case: whatever anti-non-mag bias there was in the Ministry, it had early roots.

“If you tell me when you call a press conference,” Malfoy went on blithely, “maybe I wouldn’t have to read ‘Unable to Cast a Patronus, Malfoy Scion Fails Again’ in the _Daily Prophet._ ”

Startled, Harry glanced at him as they walked. “They didn’t actually call it that?”

“They should have. My titles are better.”

“But it’s not a good title,” Harry said, then wondered why he was arguing this.

“Better than the one they used.”

Malfoy hadn’t had to put his failures on display like that, and yet he had. “I didn’t ask you to be there,” Harry said. “Press conferences I call are my own business.”

“That, and of every subscriber of RevealRadio and _The Wizard Watcher_ , which I think we can agree covers the majority of the magical population, on either pole.”

“I meant, I’m not responsible for what you choose to do.”

“I know what you meant.” Malfoy said it like a quip, but then didn’t follow up with anything else until they got to Crowley Stott, the Academy library.

Just outside the anti-Apparition wards, Crowley Stott Library was an archive for the Ministry as well as a resource for the Academy. The central corridor of the massive stone building was lit only by the reading room at the top of the main staircase at the end of the hall, making the large space cool and cavernous. The Memory Wing, however, featured floor-to-ceiling cathedral windows, spilling morning light into a clean, spacious room, the shelves of memories in their glass vials reflecting that light until the whole room felt shining with silver memory and golden sun. The Pensieves stood on pedestals, one in front of each window, with partitions between the windows in case the viewings needed to be private. Velvet curtains could be drawn to close the booths off completely.

They had not encountered anyone when they had entered the library, which was a relief. Harry didn’t particularly want to be seen walking about in the early morning with Malfoy. Perhaps this was because Malfoy had said he was going to show him something confidential, but perhaps . . . 

Since last year, Malfoy hadn’t been terribly obvious about his feelings, and no one seemed to have guessed the reason for the shape his boggart took. Still, that didn’t mean that Malfoy had stopped wanting him. He had said he would love him forever, and Harry was getting more and more nervous about what the memory in the vial might contain.

Memories were used for all sorts of things, including conveying information. They could be solid evidence at a trial, for instance. They could also be, and frequently were, porn. But Malfoy wouldn’t show him porn. Would he?

Beginning to feel uncomfortable, Harry turned to Malfoy. “Malfoy, is this going to be—”

“Don’t worry,” Malfoy said, sweeping through the sun-dappled room toward one of the Pensieves. “It’s not pornography.”

“That’s not what I was going to ask,” Harry said, following him.

“Wasn’t it?” Malfoy uncorked the vial and poured in the memory, which slid liquid and silver from the glass into the stone bowl. “You think I’m depraved.”

“I don’t think you’re depraved,” Harry said. “I also don’t think porn is depraved.”

Malfoy perked up. “You don’t? That’s great. We should compare notes. What type of pornography do you prefer? I’m partial to the—”

“I’m not going to talk about pornography with you.”

“Coward.”

“Wow,” Harry said. “I can’t. . . I really can’t say anyone’s ever called me that before.”

“Because they weren’t paying attention,” Malfoy said immediately. “Are you going to watch it, or are we going to talk about bravery and sexually explicit memory-viewing all morning?”

Harry stayed where he was, by the entrance to the wing. “You haven’t told me what it is yet.”

“Right,” Malfoy agreed. “Because I want to show you.”

Harry realized he was curious. Too curious to walk away, which was what his instincts told him to do. Sighing, he moved toward the viewing booth, and Malfoy moved out of it so that Harry had plenty of room in front of the Pensieve. Supposing that he was more than a match for anyone who couldn’t cast a Patronus, and that Crowley Stott was one of the safest places on campus, Harry decided to forget about what Malfoy might do to him as he looked into the Pensieve, and bent over to put his face in.

The familiar grey of memory resolved around him into a large room with elaborate drapery and parquet floors, filled with wizards and witches, finely dressed. Traditionally dressed. Harry knew before recognizing any of the faces that this was some kind of pure-blood ball, such that when he began to recognize the faces—Bulstrodes, Notts, Zabinis, Pillwickles—the recognition only served as confirmation. Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass stood together, each holding elaborate magical drinks, talking to a Goyle and a Macmillan that Harry didn’t know. 

Unable to think of any reason a pure-blood ball could be of any interest to him, Harry was about to pull his face out, when a figure outside the ballroom caught Harry’s attention. Harry could only just see him through the series of windowed doors, outside on the veranda, talking to another figure in the shadows. 

Apparently, the same figure had caught Malfoy’s attention also, because the memory of Malfoy quite abruptly severed the conversation he’d been having with the Macmillan, giving his drink to Greengrass. “I’ve something I must attend to,” Malfoy said. “Pardon me.” He even gave a little bow as he excused himself.

“I can’t believe you’re marrying that,” said the Goyle, as Malfoy crossed the ballroom floor. 

He did not, however, cross to the glass doors and the figure who had captured Harry’s interest. Instead, Malfoy moved to Pansy Parkinson, in whom Harry had exactly zero interest. “You’re looking radiant,” Malfoy told Parkinson, smiling in a way that was actually rather winning.

It didn’t seem to work on Parkinson. “Sod off.”

Still smiling, Malfoy sidled closer. “Oh, really now, Pans. Are we going to hold a grudge?”

“Yes.”

“Because I’m so good-looking?”

This was boring. And a trifle embarrassing. Harry strained to see if he could see the figure he had seen earlier, when Parkinson said, “Because you’re a _Revealer_.”

Harry’s attention snapped back to Malfoy, who was looking about the room while pointing at Parkinson. “Character defamation! I say, character defamation!” Malfoy didn’t exactly sound as though he expected anyone to respond to this alarm. 

“What do you _want_?” Parkinson said. Harry had begun to wonder the same thing.

“Nothing.” Malfoy waited a long moment, perfectly still. Then he stirred. “I didn’t know you were friends with Edgar.”

“I’m not friends with anyone you’re friends with. Even Astoria’s sunk in everyone’s estimation, since she’s marrying you. I hope you know that.”

“Fair enough,” Malfoy said. “Has Edgar risen in our estimation, then?”

“Fine.” Turning her head away, Parkinson snatched a glass of a smoking liquid from the tray of a house-elf, who had been passing by so discreetly, Harry had barely even seen her. “I’ll bite. Who is Edgar?”

“Edgar Travers? Over there.” Malfoy waved vaguely in the direction of the figure Harry had been watching earlier.

“Oh, him.” Parkinson made a face. “He’s a half-blood.”

“I know.” Malfoy looked disgusted, except Harry wasn’t quite clear on whether Harry was disgusted by Edgar Travers’s blood status, or by Pansy Parkinson’s revilement of it. “I’m shocked! Shocked to find a half-blood a _guest_ at Windermere Hall. What is the world coming to?”

Parkinson rolled her eyes. “He’s not a guest, obviously.”

“Thank goodness.” Malfoy pretended to wipe his brow. “The Parkinson dignity is restored. Then again,” Malfoy went on, nicking Parkinson’s drink straight out of her hand, “why is he here?”

“That’s mine.”

“Naturally.” Malfoy sipped her smoking drink, which possibly Harry might know the name of if he was posh and pure-blood and an utter ponce, like Malfoy. “But not a guest, and surely you know this fellow has been in the press a bit, given that nasty mess at Academy—”

“That was _invented._ ” Parkinson sneered. “You know that Potter and Shackleshit and all his little Revealer friends are trying to suggest there’s blood supremacy in the Ministry, when we all _know_ that the whole institution is a pack of Muggle-loving Mud—”

Harry almost drew his face out of the Pensieve, because he certainly didn’t have to listen to filth like this, when Malfoy’s quiet voice cut through Parkinson’s ranting.

“Careful. I hear such language is not quite . . . de rigueur, these days.”

Parkinson rolled her eyes again. “Not you, too.”

“Oh, of course not.” Malfoy’s tone was airy. “Why is he here? I thought if everyone was going to snub me at parties, they could give me the distinction of being pure-blood parties.”

“It _is_ a pure-blood party. He’s only here on some business of father’s.”

“Business?” Malfoy feigned shocked. “As though Lord Parkinson would ever! He’s a professional man of leisure.”

For some reason, this made a hint of amusement appear at the corner of Parkinson’s mouth. “You really are impossible. Give me back my drink.”

“This drink? Of course.” Tipping it back, Malfoy poured the entire misty concoction down his throat, then made a face. “Ugh. That was vile.” He handed the empty glass back to Parkinson, whose amusement had disappeared entirely.

“I hate you.” Whirling around on her sparkling heels, Parkinson left Malfoy looking after her with a look that turned gentle as soon as her back was to him. He stayed there for a moment, and Harry almost thought that would be all, until Malfoy gathered himself and walked across the room again—this time in the direction of the glass doors. Malfoy stayed by one of the grand velvet drapes just out of sight of Travers, who continued to converse with another figure, still in shadow. Malfoy twirled the empty cocktail glass in his hand.

After a moment, another server came by with a gleaming tray, and Malfoy set the glass upon it. Harry was just beginning to get bored again, and to notice that the washed out colours of the memory did Malfoy no disservice—he almost looked elegant in his dark robes, laced tightly up to the neck, and pale features—when one of the glass doors began to open. The figure entering the ballroom was Parkinson Senior, Harry was fairly certain, though he’d only ever seen him at the trials. Malfoy was opening the adjacent door, though, exiting to the veranda as Parkinson entered the ballroom.

“Oh, forgive me,” Malfoy said immediately. “I didn’t know anyone was out here.”

Travers was already stepping off the veranda on to the grass. 

“Edgar?” Malfoy said, sounding surprised. “I say—Edgar Travers?” Now he just sounded ridiculously posh. Who said “ _I say_ ”? But Travers was already strolling across the grass, and Malfoy took off after him, eventually catching up and grasping Travers by the elbow. “Oh hello,” Malfoy said, when Travers stopped and turned. “I thought that was you. You have a very distinct . . . head.”

“Draco,” Travers said, seeming displeased.

“What’s wrong? You don’t want to talk to me?”

In response to demands of the press and large sector of the wizarding population, the Board had agreed to expel Travers for his harassment of Fairchild, but so far they had neglected to press any criminal charges. Fairchild herself had been looking into the possibility of doing so, but wizarding law surrounding crimes of Aurors was complicated, and currently the Auror Department was claiming that as a trainee, Travers should be considered an Auror for all intents and purposes.

“I didn’t think you would want to talk to me,” Travers said. He had a long, thin face with long, thin lips and long, thin eyes.

“Why-ever not?” Malfoy asked. When Travers made a face, Malfoy went on. “We were friends. Or we would’ve been,” Malfoy added quickly, “had I been the friends-having type.” When Travers seemed unconvinced by this, Malfoy said, with all the triumphant grace of someone who had thought up something clever, “You invited me to the pub!”

“I invited everyone to the pub.”

“Not Fairchild.”

Travers scowled. “You never came with us.”

“You invited everyone,” Malfoy said. “You invited _Bennet_. If you honestly think I could bear his constant prattling about Muggles—you, my friend, are off your nut.”

“You aren’t meant to say ‘Muggle.’” 

“Muggle.”

The brilliant light spilling from the veranda only just illuminated the tightening muscle beside Travers’s mouth.

“They got to you, didn’t they,” Malfoy said.

“Who got to me?”

“The Muggle-lovers. Revealers. New Blood people, you know.”

“I heard _you’re_ a Revealer.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “People are jealous of me. They can’t help it.

“What do you want from me?”

“Why, to catch up with an old acquaintance,” Malfoy said. “I didn’t know you were here. Come back to the party.”

Travers glanced toward the glittering lights. “I wasn’t at the party.”

“Of course you were, after all you’ve been through,” Malfoy said, soothing. “If not, you may come as my guest.” He touched Travers’s arm, and Harry could see the way these kind words, this gentle tone, could be almost . . . compelling, if they hadn’t been coming from Malfoy. When Travers seemed to hesitate, Malfoy dropped his hand and said, “If this is about what happened at Academy . . .” Trailing off, Malfoy glanced toward the ballroom as well, the crystal clear glass, the magic light spilling onto the lawn. “Everyone in there understands what you did,” Malfoy said. “Perhaps they find the methods rather . . . uncouth, but you know behind closed doors, they support it. The Force needs more people who aren’t grovelling to Shacklebolt. Why do you think I’m at Academy?”

Travers’s scowl returned. “You told the _Prophet_ you wanted to be an Auror so you could hunt ex-Death Eaters.”

“Do you really think they would allow me to become an Auror if I had said anything else?”

The scowl deepened. “I’ve never seen you at any of the meetings.”

The conversation had already captured Harry’s interest, but these words made his heart momentarily stop.

Malfoy seemed completely unfazed. “You know, I’ve never been _invited_ to any meetings? It’s almost as though the Old Blood believes the press just as much as all these Reveal zealots, as though I’ve become some sort of . . . anti-purist.” Looking disturbed, Malfoy flapped a hand. “We all know everything but _The Wizard Watcher_ is ridiculously biased. If I have to read one more think-piece in which someone slobbers all over that Mudblood Granger, I’ll seriously consider self-Crucio as a better life choice.”

Harry sort of wanted to slap him, the way Hermione once had when Malfoy had called her names. Travers was looking at Malfoy with slowly growing approval, and Harry wanted to slap him too. He was only a little older than Teddy; it didn’t matter. He deserved to be slapped.

But maybe Malfoy didn’t. Harry had never heard any rumours that Malfoy was a Revealer.

“Anyway.” Malfoy tugged on his sleeve, the tight lacings on his forearm. “One would think my pedigree enough to earn an invite. It would help if I knew to whom I should make nice, but everyone is so bloody secretive about such things.”

“With good reason.”

“Edgar,” Malfoy said reprovingly. “I was a Death Eater. My father was a Death Eater. My aunt was a Death Eater. Do you really think I don’t know the meaning of secrecy?”

“The Dark Lord wasn’t very subtle.”

“Yes, well.” Malfoy tugged his sleeve again. “And look what he’s done for the cause. He’s put us all into hiding and made us all mistrust each other; that’s what.”

Travers seemed to hesitate. “You could come.”

Malfoy stopped fiddling with his sleeve, head snapping up. “You could do that for me?”

“Possibly.”

Malfoy began to smile. “Why, Edgar, you sly dog. You’re of more consequence than I thought.”

Travers gave a shrug that seemed calculated to look self-deprecating, but only served to make him seem more arrogant. “Like you said. I got their attention.”

“I only wish I’d thought of a way to do the same. I was making the mistake of keeping my head down until I was an Auror.”

“By then, it will be too late,” Travers said. “They’re trying to get Reveal this summer.”

“Never happen,” Malfoy said. “Too many members have investments tied up in the Diagon Association. Shackleshit will never build a coalition.”

Travers rolled his eyes. “Right, sure, but Harry fucking Potter says the sky is green, and seven-eighths of the wizarding world casts a colour spell to make it so.”

“Potter.” The way Malfoy spat the word felt old and familiar. “If I could either eliminate all Muggles or that mangy bastard, I’d have a tough decision before me. I’m sorry for what he did to you,” Malfoy added, touching Travers’s arm again. “I’ve thought of it often.”

“Thank you,” said Travers, appearing truly touched. “It’s been truly devastating, having your life’s dream ruined for some graffiti.”

“He’s always been a sanctimonious prick,” Malfoy agreed. “If it’s any consolation, most of the other instructors have been treating him like the absolute shite he is. Not even all the trainees are worshipping at his feet these days. Poor little Potter. I daresay coming to work these past few weeks have been a proper misery.”

“That _is_ a consolation.” Once more, Travers’s voice was full of feeling. “And it’s worked out, in the end.”

“Right, the meetings!” Malfoy said, snapping his fingers. “When did you say the next one was? And where?”

“I didn’t,” Travers said, giving him an indulgent smile, “but it’s here, this Friday.”

This was more than enough. Harry already knew he had to turn this memory over to the Department, but Malfoy was still talking.

“This isn’t some students’ club from your Hogwarts days, is it?” Malfoy was saying. “I have a history of action, you know. They don’t write it this way in the histories, but I helped handle Dumbledore. I’m not interested in schoolboy mask-wearing.”

Travers looked rather smug at this, his slit of a mouth slipping into a smirk, his eyes reflecting the shining light from the ballroom. “I think you’ll find us quite sophisticated.”

“Well.” Malfoy seemed mollified. “I suppose if Mister Parkinson is involved, one should expect no less.”

“Parkinson is nothing.”

“Pardon?”

“We have far more important members,” Travers said. “Ones you’ve heard of.”

“I’ve heard of Parkinson,” Malfoy said, looking sulky. “I was in the war, you’ll remember. I had the—prestigious people living at my house. I was personally—intimately—acquainted with pretty much everyone of consequence there used to be.”

“Yes, well.” Travers still looked smug. “Some have remained consequential.”

Malfoy went still. Appearing not to notice, Travers went on, “While others have decided to participate in this farce of . . . respectability and Reveal and whatnot.”

Malfoy swallowed. Then he flashed a smile so brilliantly genuine, it absolutely had to be false. “I will be there.”

“Have I impressed you?” Travers said, still smirking.

“We’ll see.” Malfoy waved a dismissive hand. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come to the ball? You’ve more than earned your place.”

For a moment, Travers looked longingly at the lights, but at last he shook his head. “No. I still haven’t yet. Like you, I need to prove myself.”

“I’d say we’ve more than proven ourselves, but very well,” Malfoy said. Putting out his hand, he went on, “I’m glad I happened to come out here. Thank you, Edgar.”

Travers shook Malfoy’s hand, and the memory began to fall apart, a rift of silver rippling between Travers’s body and the veranda, until the lights of the ballroom were just sparkling dotes in the grey liquid of the memory. Harry took his head out, then turned around.

Malfoy was standing by one of the shelves of memories, the morning light making his skin and hair look almost white. His robes were severe and black, as though he were in mourning. Harry had never seen him dress so severely, and for just one moment, Harry thought of Snape. The turncoat. 

The spy.

Putting his wand in the Pensieve, Harry pulled the memory out, spooling it onto his wand and then back into the vial that Malfoy had left on the pedestal. As Harry put the cork in, Malfoy turned back toward him. He didn’t say anything, his expression startlingly grim after all of his simpering and joking to Travers and Parkinson.

“We’ve got to take it to the Aurors,” Harry said, putting the vial in his pocket.

“Of course,” Malfoy said, the response immediate.

“Now,” Harry said.

“Yes.” Malfoy waggled his fingers, a dismissive gesture. “Whatever you think.”

Harry came toward him, and Malfoy looked around behind him, as though there might be someone else Harry was approaching. Sparing no time for Malfoy’s games, Harry reached for Malfoy’s elbow, but Malfoy wrested himself away, stumbling back and then along the shelves. “Heavens, you’re not _arresting_ me, are you? You _do_ know I was trying to get information from him, don’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry said, irked by this delay. “You’ve got to come with me. When memories are used as evidence, the person whose memory it is has to—”

“Come forward and testify that the memory is their own. Yes, yes. I’ve taken Spragg’s Magical Law.”  
Malfoy made a face of disgust. “I just didn’t actually think . . .” Malfoy made a frittering gesture with his hand. “You don’t have to really follow the law, do you?”

Harry gave him a look.

“I don’t know! You’re Harry Potter. Aren’t you like unto a god in some principalities?”

“We don’t have principalities.”

“Why do you have to be so . . . ?” Colour sprang into Malfoy’s face, high and hot in his cheeks. Licking his lips, he looked away. “Can’t you just . . . convince them?”

“Can’t you just come with me?”

“Right. Sure. Of course. ‘Thank you so much, Draco. We just love ex-Death Eaters showing us entire ballrooms full of bigoted purists who are actively agitating against the Minister of Magic and occasionally spouting off supremacist slurs—’”

“Malfoy,” Harry said incredulously. “Do you think they’ll—what, lay charges on you? For being at a party?”

“Oh, do you mean their ‘institution blood purism’ is going to save me? Pull the other.”

“I never said they were all blood purists,” Harry said, for what felt like the thousandth time.

“Since when did you become a semanticist?”

“Can we just—” Harry reached for him again, cutting off when Malfoy again jerked away.

“I have exams in other classes.”

“You can make it up.”

“Nope. I’ve failed one of them; if I do _really_ well on the others, I might be able to . . .” Suddenly Malfoy brightened, looking as though he had a brilliant plan. Harry was beginning to know and understand this look, and he hated it. He hated it. “Hey, if I go with you, do you think you might see it in your—stone cold, frigid—heart to pass me in Advanced Defence Against the—”

“No.”

“Then I’m not going.”

Harry gritted his teeth. Here they were talking about the chance to possibly capture Rodolphus Lestrange and Fenrir Greyback—two of the Death Eaters that had not been captured during the war and were thought to be responsible for the anti-non-mag terrorism that still occasionally occurred—and here was Malfoy, whinging about his _marks._ “So all that about—about wanting to stop Death Eaters, and hatred, and violence—here you have a chance to do _all_ of that, in one fell swoop, and you can’t even—you can’t even do that? Just that?”

Malfoy bit his lip. “Someone might notice I was missing.”

Harry opened his mouth to tear him down another notch, but then remembered Kavika’s calming techniques—listening, looking, smelling, seeing, feeling. Malfoy’s slim figure was standing quite still, but his chest was moving rapidly. Colour was high in his cheeks, contrasting sharply with his light hair. He was afraid, Harry realized, and the anger left him. 

Of course, Malfoy was afraid. He’d always been afraid, even when they were kids. He was afraid of his own Patronus, for Christ’s sake. “Malfoy,” Harry said, more gently now. He took a step forward. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. You have my word.” 

Malfoy’s quick, shallow breathing hitched. He closed his eyes.

Slowly, Harry reached out, touching Malfoy’s arm. “Draco.”

“Stop it,” Malfoy snapped, eyes flying open. “You haven’t got any right, to use that on me.”

“Use what?”

Malfoy jerked away from his touch. “Also, you’re bad at it.”

“Draco,” Harry said again, because Malfoy was acting like Harry was trying to _seduce_ him, when all he was trying to be was gentle. “I’m really bad at a lot of things. Protecting people isn’t one of them.”

“Fuck,” Malfoy muttered.

“Draco,” Harry said again, stepping toward him again.

“ _Harry_ ,” Malfoy mocked, side-stepping away. “Hands off. You’ll just have to wait. Evening!”

“What?”

“We can go this evening. After class.”

Harry glanced down at the vial. “When did this—”

“Saturday,” Malfoy said.

Today was Monday. If the ball in the memory had been on Saturday, that meant Malfoy had come to him as soon as he could. The meeting to which Travers had invited him wasn’t until this Friday, so they still had plenty of time. Still—

“The thing—the meeting—isn’t until Friday. We have plenty of time,” Malfoy said. “Worried I’ll run away?”

“That wasn’t what I was thinking.”

“But you were going to.”

“No.” Harry slipped the vial into his pocket. “I trust you.”

Malfoy swallowed.

“This isn’t going to go well for Mister Parkinson,” Harry said, walking back to check that the Pensiwve had been cleared entirely. It was empty. 

“What do I care?”

“You and Pansy seemed close,” Harry said. “In school.”

Malfoy just stared at him.

“You’re really okay with supplying evidence against her father to the Auror Force?”

“Did you hear what she said to me?”

Harry shrugged. “School friends can disagree.”

“How very nice for you.” Malfoy’s sarcasm was thick. “Not all of us have kept the same friends we had at eleven, Potter.”

“Good. My office. After classes.”

“No.” Malfoy shook his head. “Someone will see us. It puts the information at risk. I’m already taking a chance by being here with you just now, especially during examinations.”

“All right.” Thinking about it, Harry frowned. “Actually, it might be better if no one sees you at the Ministry either. I’ve a Portkey to the Auror Department; if you Floo directly to my house, we can go from there.”

“Your house.” Malfoy sounded odd. 

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s in Pecket Well, North Dashberry Street, at the end of the lane by the river.” 

Malfoy stared at him.

“It hasn’t got a name,” Harry explained, “so you have to say the whole address.”

“But you’ve told me where you live,” Malfoy said, still with that odd tone. “I could go there any time. Aren’t you worried I could . . . ?”

Harry snorted. “Stalk me? The wards can be adjusted if I invite someone over.” 

“When you invite someone over. Like Vinicius Sousa?”

Harry just stared at him. Malfoy didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed of himself, though colour had popped back into his cheeks. When Harry spoke, his voice sounded as worn and exhausted as he felt from these past few weeks of reporters and stress and Aurors hating him and Teddy not speaking to him, without any of Vinny’s home-cooked meals. “Is that really the conversation we’re having now? Really?”

Malfoy swallowed. “When should I come?”

“What?” Harry asked, still feeling exhausted.

“To your house. For the . . . my execution. Prosecution. Pardon, so the Aurors can eat me alive?”

“They won’t eat you, Malfoy. You’re too bony.”

“I’m lithe,” Malfoy said immediately. “I’m all sinew. They say the wiry ones are the strongest.”

“No, they don’t. Seven,” Harry added, turning away. He would need time to contact Ron, arrange the necessary people to be at the Department, and when they arrived, Harry didn’t want to run into anyone who might just be there during normal working hours.

“That’s supper time,” Malfoy was saying.

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Harry said, heading towards the door.

“Supper is very important!” Malfoy called after him, but he would come. All other things aside, Malfoy was still in love with him. Harry had heard it in Malfoy’s voice when he’d said Vinicius’s name, and perhaps what Harry had told Kavika had happened after all. Malfoy would do the right thing. Even if it was only because of his feelings for Harry, Harry wasn’t above taking advantage of them—not for something this important. Not if it meant catching Death Eaters who were still killing non-magical people.

Harry left the room, leaving Malfoy alone with the sunlight and memories.

*

At precisely seven o’clock that evening, Malfoy rolled out of the Floo looking as pristine as always. Harry still didn’t know how people did that; he’d always had trouble with Floos, even from the start. Malfoy was already surveying the territory, as though the cottage was a place he might one day like to live. Crossing to the window across from the hearth, Malfoy looked out on the garden. “Excellent lawn,” he commented.

Harry didn’t know why he couldn’t just ignore him. “I haven’t had time to weed.”

“You know there’s a spell for that.” Malfoy turned back to him, is tone knowing, arrogant.

“Let’s just do this. Here’s the Portkey.” Harry was holding the Auror badge in its cloth so he wouldn’t travel yet.

Malfoy didn’t move. “You weed the non-magical way, don’t you. Gives you something to do with your hands. Focus your mind.” Sliding his hands into his pockets, Malfoy went on, “I have the same thing with cooking. Never did it when I was younger; we had . . . . It helps. What do you do in the winter?”

“Knitting.”

“Funny,” Malfoy said. “Knitting’s not bad.”

“Come on, Malfoy,” Harry said. “You knit?”

Malfoy just shrugged. “Tried it. I tried everything. For the insomnia.”

Clutching the badge tighter, Harry said, “I’m sorry.”

“No big deal.” Malfoy sniffed. “We don’t have to talk about it. Shall we throw ourselves on the mercy of the Force?”

“We won’t need mercy,” said Harry. “The Force has been looking for Lestrange and Greyback since the war.”

“What if Travers wasn’t talking about Lestrange and Greyback?” Malfoy said, just to be a contrarian. “What if it’s . . . Dolohov? No one wants Dolohov.”

“Put your hand on the badge, Malfoy.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” Malfoy came toward him and put his hand on the badge.

Harry did as well, careful not to let his skin brush Malfoy’s, and then they were whirling away into the Ministry of Magic, leaving the sun to set over Pecket Well and the house at the end of North Dashberry Street, where a pretty little cottage sat in an weedy lawn.

* 

When Harry and Malfoy arrived at the office, only a handful of Aurors were there, Robards among them. Robards wasn’t a secret neo-Death Eater, even if he was too conservative—but that didn’t mean no one on the Force was. They had to keep Malfoy’s information quiet if an Auror or two was to infiltrate the meeting this Friday and find out what was really going on.

After the morning in the library with Malfoy, Harry had spent the time between and after teaching his classes communicating not only with Robards and Ron but also the Aurors Ron trusted who had been working on the open investigations believed to be connected to Lestrange and Greyback. Harry had already given them the gist of Malfoy’s intel, so once Malfoy handed over the memory and gave his verbal authentication, Harry thought they would be able to leave.

“Stay,” said Robards.

Harry, who had been about to hold his Portkey home out to Malfoy, paused.

“You can go,” Robards told Harry. He nodded at Malfoy. “I meant you.”

“He authenticated the memory,” Harry said, because he had promised Malfoy the Aurors wouldn’t do anything to him, and there was no reason he should have to stay.

“We don’t know what it contains.”

Harry took a calming breath, then another. Robards was always like this. Harry wasn’t sure why, after four years, he had thought it would be any different, especially after what he’d said when he’d held the press conference about Travers’s punishment. Harry had told them that the Force had refused to intervene. Furthermore, Robards knew that harassing a witness was certain to agitate Harry—even if that witness was Malfoy. “You know what the memory contains,” Harry said finally. “We’ve been doing nothing but message about it for the past two hours.”

“We haven’t seen it yet,” said Robards.

“Why does he need to be here for you to—”

“You never know, Potter,” Malfoy said lightly. “The vial might explode. The memory might prove me a serial killer.” 

Harry began, “But—”

“It might be porn,” Malfoy continued. Slipping his hands in his pockets, he swung to face Robards. “Do you like porn, Gawain?”

Robards gave Malfoy that smile he gave everyone he despised. Harry would know, as he had been the recipient of that smile many times.

“I bet you like the really kinky kind,” Malfoy was saying. “The kind with tentacles. And Animagi. And—”

“Malfoy,” said Ron.

Malfoy swung his grey gaze on him now, too. “Weasley.”

Ron looked doubtfully at Robards, then apologetically at Harry. “I’m sure we just want to keep Malfoy in case we have questions afterwards,” he told Harry, then glanced back at Malfoy. “I’m sure it’s not a problem for you to stay longer, is it?”

Harry sort of wanted to answer for him, since Ron _had_ to know why Robards was doing this, except Ron was using his Reasonable Adult voice—the one he had gained around the time Harry was having trouble finding his. That it wouldn’t really hurt Malfoy to stay was absolutely true.

“Want me to be here for the orgies after the tentacle porn?” Malfoy guessed.

“Sure,” said Ron. “Why not?”

Malfoy sniffed. “I’ll stay.”

“I’m staying too,” Harry announced.

“Um,” Malfoy said. “I’m not sure Gawain wants you at his orgy? I’ve been specifically invited, and it would be rather awkward if—”

“Does he always talk this much?” Robards wanted to know.

Harry shrugged. “You’re the one who wanted him at your orgy.”

“I’m so glad you’re not an Auror any longer,” Robards said, turning away. “We’ll use the Penseive Projector in Wizengamot Administrative Services. You two stay in the waiting room—we want an unbiased viewing.”

“There is no unbiased viewing,” Malfoy called after him. “We’re all constructs of a subjective reality!”

Ignoring this, the Aurors swept into the courtroom.

*

Harry and Malfoy sat outside Wizengamot Administrative Services, where Harry realized he was hungry, and the memory was long. All of the memory was important—Parkinson’s confirmation that Travers worked with her father, the entire conversation with Travers himself. Even the opening conversation with Greengrass and the Macmillan helped to authenticate the memory and prove that it had not been tampered with, but that didn’t really help Harry feel better. His veins felt cold. His head hurt. He should have at least had a snack.

“Here,” Malfoy said, thrusting a box in his face.

“What?” Harry said blankly.

Malfoy just waggled the box, which, when Harry opened it, seemed to hold an assortment of tiny pies.

“Quiches,” Malfoy said.

Frowning at them, Harry picked one up. It seemed to have something green in it as well as yellow, and the crust was flaky. “Fuck,” Harry said, after the first bite, which melted in his mouth like spinach butter.

“Juice.” Malfoy waggled something else in his face.

“What?” Harry asked with his mouth full.

“Sugar,” Malfoy said. “Hydration.”

Malfoy and his liquids. Harry took the bottle anyway and went back to eating the mini quiche. The juice was ice cold, fresh, rather than sweet. It helped wash down the richness of the quiches.

“Stop moaning,” Malfoy said, after another minute.

“What?” Harry looked at him with a bit of mini-quiche hanging out of his mouth.

“And I know you have a limited vocabulary, but learn some other words.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, picking up another mini-quiche. This one had tomato. “These are really delicious.”

“I told you supper is important.” Malfoy voice was prim. “You should listen to me.”

After a few more minutes, Harry remembered he was allowed to chew his food, and eventually he slowed down. “Did you make them?”

Malfoy looked like he thought Harry was crazy.

“You said you cooked.”

“I’m also mortal, difficult as that might be to believe. I can’t make pastry of gods.”

Harry had another bite. “So, you bought them?”

Malfoy seemed to find this amusing. “Yes, Potter. I bought them.”

“Wow.” Harry took another bite. “Where?”

For some reason, Malfoy seemed even more amused by this. “A Malfoy has his secrets. I couldn’t possibly tell you.”

Harry almost smiled. “Oh, does one? I wonder if a Malfoy has secrets if I—”

The doors to the courtroom opened. Hastily dropping a half-eaten quiche in the box, Harry started to put the box on his seat, but Malfoy’s hand came out, took the box, and made it disappear back into the bag he’d brought. For the first time, Harry wondered why Malfoy had a bag at all. Was it just so he could bring Harry mini-quiches?

“Good job.” Robards was facing Harry, holding out his hand, but as Harry reached to take it, Robards deliberately turned to Malfoy, making it clear the congratulations was for Malfoy, not Harry.

Malfoy hesitated, then took the proffered hand. “Does that mean you can use the information?”

“Use it?” Hanging onto Malfoy’s hand, Robards looked over his shoulder at the other Aurors. “Of course, we can use it. You did a good job making those pure-bloods think you were on their side, too.” 

Malfoy extracted his hand, going a little pink. Maybe he was embarrassed by fitting in with pure-bloods, or maybe Malfoy was just pleased by anyone saying he had done well, which was interesting. Harry had assumed it was only his own praise that made Malfoy blush.

“Which is why you’re going to do it again,” said Robards.

“No,” said Harry.

“The problem is,” Robards went on, ignoring Harry, “every time we get a lead on an NDEs meeting, they know the second we Apparate anywhere even close, and they Apparate away before we can catch them. The wards are too good. The most we ever get is one or two, and we can’t arrest them for simple meeting—we have no proof of their crimes. But if we could get someone in there with a Ward Bore, Insight Contacts, maybe even a Hearing Raid . . . . If you go to the meeting and act like one of them, we’d finally keep the NDEs in one spot long enough to find out what they’re doing.”

“He’s not an Auror,” Harry said.

“NDEs,” said Malfoy. “Neo-Death Eaters. What’s a Hearing Raid?”

“See? Told you he’d be good for it.” Robards looked over his shoulder again at the other Aurors, then turned back to Malfoy. “A Hearing Raid picks up sound in one place and transmits it to another place,” Robards went on, “so we’d be able to hear the meeting from—”

“You have no idea what kind of situation you’d be putting him into,” Harry said.

“Harry, he’s our age,” Ron said. “It’s not like we’d be putting a trainee—”

“What if they make him take Veritaserum?” Harry demanded, appalled that Ron seemed to be arguing in favour of this. “What if they check for Raids at the door?” He turned back to Robards. “You can’t just put an innocent person into a group of known terrorists without a way to—”

“Oh, come off it,” Robards said. “He’s hardly innocent.”

“He doesn’t know how to cast a Patronus!”

“I’ll do it,” said Malfoy.

Harry turned on him. “No.”

Malfoy held his eyes with his own cool ones, for some reason looking far too relaxed. “Yes.”

“I promised I’d protect you,” Harry said, feeling panic slowly clawing its way into his chest. He’d made a promise. He’d made a _promise_ , not only to Malfoy, but to himself: he would never put one of his trainees in danger. Even if the trainee was a person his age who had seen more than enough of danger and what the world could do; it didn’t matter. Harry was his _instructor_.

“Yes. Thank you,” Malfoy said. “Very professorial. Very heroic. Very Potter.” 

Harry thought of his trainees. Teddy. Then he thought of Rose, her first year at Hogwarts, and Hugo yet to get his letter. Harry thought of Colin Creevy and Cedric Diggory and Hermione and Ron, the child he himself had been, the child Kavika said he was allowed to love and pity, and understand had been wronged. He thought of Quirrel and Lockhart and Barty Crouch and Umbridge. “I’m your teacher,” Harry said, helplessly.

Malfoy’s voice was haughty. “You’re not my father.”

“Potter,” Robards spat. “Clinging to what little power you have left. It’s pathetic. You think you can trash my Department, then come in here and tell me how it’s run? What, because you cast a disarming spell that didn’t kill you, because once upon a time _Mummy_ saved you.”

“I don’t care what you think about me,” Harry said, furious. “It’s him you’re putting in a dangerous situation.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” said Robards.

“He won’t,” Harry said, “and you can’t. He’s _mine_.”

“Is that right?” Robards asked Malfoy. “Are you his?”

The flush was mounting high in Malfoy’s cheeks began to spread all over.

“Harry,” Ron said. “Maybe we should all just take a moment.”

“We don’t need a moment,” said Robards. “I’ve already decided. I’m in charge.”

Taking out his wand, Harry pointed it. “Expecto Patronum.”

“Are you sure that’s really necessary,” said Ron, but really it was more like a sigh.

The silver stag had sprung from Harry’s wand, and Harry spoke to it. “Get Minister Shacklebolt. Tell him Harry Potter has an emergency in Wizengamot Administrative Services.”

“Oh, right, of course.” As the stag whooshed away, Robards just laughed. “Why didn’t you call one of your other father figures? Oh, right. They all died.”

“Careful,” Malfoy said coolly. 

“Let him run to daddy.” Robards scoffed. “He’s already put this Department in the shit-can. We’ll see what the—”

“No,” said Malfoy. “I don’t mean be careful of Potter. Be careful of me. I won’t do it if you insult him.”

Robards’s humour dropped away. “You will if I say you will.”

“Mm-hm,” Malfoy agreed. “I’ll wear your Raid. I’ll go to your meeting. And I’ll tell them a room full of Aurors are listening in.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Insult him again,” Malfoy said. “See what I do.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said. “You don’t have to do it at all.”

Malfoy turned toward him. “I want to.”

“You didn’t even want to come here in the first place,” Harry said, exasperated now as well as worried. 

Malfoy just shrugged.

“You don’t have to do it,” Harry pressed. “I can make it so—”

Malfoy perked up. “I pass my Defence exam?”

“Malfoy—”

“Because that’s all I wanted to do—pass my classes. Become an Auror.” Looking thoughtful, Malfoy trailed off. He put his head to one side. “Have you ever wanted to do anything good before? Of course you have. Look at you. I never did,” Malfoy went on. “I wanted to be an Auror because my father didn’t want me to. And it sounded nice, you know. Being heroic. Proving that I was better than y—than they thought. Perhaps I had . . .” His gaze flicked over Harry. “Personal reasons. But it wasn’t because I wanted to be good. Not really.”

“Malfoy—”

“Let me finish. I’m giving a heroic speech. I thought I would prove myself. I thought I would graduate. I would become and Auror. I would put the past behind me. I would be someone new. But you know what? That’s not what it is to be good. Good is doing what you can, when you can. It’s doing your part, even when it’s not what you wanted. Do you know who taught me that?”

Harry was appalled at the idea that Malfoy might say ‘you’.

“Hermione?” Ron guessed, because he was like that.

“Teddy,” Malfoy said. “I can do my part. Even if I can never be an Auror.”

“Don’t,” Harry said.

Malfoy’s cheeks were still flushed from before, but Harry saw that the softer tone had had its effect.

“For me,” Harry said, pressing his advantage. “I’m asking you not to.”

Malfoy opened his mouth. “I . . .” He closed his mouth, then swallowed. Mutely, he shook his head.

“Harry,” Ron said. “We’re not asking him to get killed.”

This seemed to break Malfoy out of it. Deliberately, he turned away from Harry. “Thanks, Weasley.”

“No problem, mate,” Ron said easily.

Robards began to say, “This is all very dramatic—”

“Get used to it,” Malfoy said. “Potter and I are always a show.”

“—but I believe there is Auror casework to be done,” Robards went on. “Instructor Potter, seeing as how you are not an Auror—”

A sound cracked through the room like a strike of lightening. Even the air always seemed to crackle a bit with the scent of electricity in the wake of Shacklebolt’s Apparition, and he always arrived standing ramrod straight, as though appearing in thin air never caused even the smallest jolt. He stood there now, surveying his surroundings with just the movement of his eyes—Robards, Harry, Malfoy, Ron, the other Aurors, standing as though in tableau. Finally, Shacklebolt spoke in the slow, measured boom of a voice. “What seems to be the problem?”

Robards gave Shacklebolt a weak smile. “It’s not really a Minister matter. _Instructor_ Potter is, once again, operating outside his jurisdiction, just like he did when he was in the Department—which he is now, manifestly, not.”

Shacklebolt only gave Robards a slow blink, gaze slicing next to Harry.

“I’m sorry I called.” Harry ran his hand over the back of his fist, the scar. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Shacklebolt only acknowledged this with a slight dip of his head. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

Nodding, Harry began to explain the intel Malfoy had delivered them, while behind him, Robards snapped at the others to begin planning the mission. 

“That goes for you, too, Weasley,” Robards hissed.

“Ronald can stay.” Shacklebolt’s eyes didn’t leave Harry, who had paused. “Go on,” Shacklebolt said.

Harry finished, explaining that Malfoy still had not even passed Level One, couldn’t cast a Patronus, and furthermore was unnecessary for the purposes of infiltrating the Death Eater meeting. “If we really need to get the Ward Bore into the meeting,” Harry pointed out, “someone could Polyjuice as him.”

“I don’t think anyone could imitate me,” Malfoy said, in that insufferable tone that sounded as though he was making a smug little joke. “I have a certain je ne sais quoi that is impossible to recreate.”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” Ron said.

“To summarize,” Shacklebolt said, “we finally have intel on an NDE meeting; Draco Malfoy successfully fooled at least one other NDE into inviting him, and Malfoy attending this meeting is a chance to capture Fenrir Greyback?”

“Malfoy is my student,” Harry said, because he didn’t like the way Shacklebolt had made this sound.

“Malfoy is an Auror trainee.” Shacklebolt turned. “Mister Malfoy.”

“Kingsley,” Malfoy said, just as though they had coffee together every other Tuesday.

“Do you feel prepared to take this mission?” Shacklebolt asked him.

“Yes, sir,” Malfoy said, his voice flip. “I’m willing to die for the wizarding world.”

“Keep this straight,” Shacklebolt said. “Your world contains Death Eaters, Neo-Death Eaters, and blood supremacists. By rooting out this element, you’re not saving your world. You’re changing your world. Is that something you want?”

The humour fell out of Malfoy’s face, but his voice remained light-hearted. “You’re asking because of who my father is.”

“I’m asking because of who you are.”

Malfoy’s cheeks were still pink, but his eyes almost seemed to flash. He straightened his shoulders. “Yes. It’s something I want. It’s something I—yes. I wanted to help. For when we—when Reveal happens.”

Shacklebolt’s eyes swept over Malfoy in a way that Harry remembered, a way that challenged you and made you feel laid bare at the same time as over-awed. You would do anything to please him, when he looked at you that way. “Good,” was all Shacklebolt said, turning away from Malfoy, back to Harry.

This was not at all how this was meant to go. Malfoy was a _trainee_. Of course he was willing to do whatever it took, whatever was asked of him, because he was not the one in a position of power, because he was not the one who had learned everything he needed to know, because he was not the one who moved the pieces on the board. Shacklebolt was meant to be better than Dumbledore. He was meant to be _different._

“You’re just going to let them use him?” Harry asked, feeling defeated.

“He’s volunteering,” said Shacklebolt. 

“So did I,” Harry said.

“Oh, right, let’s drag it all out,” said Robards. “You’re such a victim; Harry Potter, the poor little—”

“Do you want me to sabotage this campaign, Gawain?” Malfoy asked him. “Because I was serious. I will.”

Not even seeming to notice these asides, Shacklebolt stood with his gaze locked on Harry’s. Sometimes Shacklebolt’s constituency complained that the Minister was a little wooden, somewhat lacking in expression, but Harry had known him for years. He could see sympathy in Kingsley’s eyes at the same time as he could see his famous, unyielding resolve.

“Harry,” Ron said, at his side again, hand on Harry’s shoulder. “It’s not the same at all. We were kids. Malfoy can choose for himself.”

“We were kids,” Harry said, turning to Ron. “I thought that meant when we grew up, we could be better. That we would be better.”

“I’m not better,” Malfoy piped up. “I never stole any dragons or fought any trolls or basilisks or anything like that, so now’s my chance to really shine.”

“This isn’t a game,” Shacklebolt said, not even bothering to look at him, and Malfoy shut his mouth. “Instructor Potter. I assume you would prefer to personally oversee Mister Malfoy’s wellbeing and safety during this mission?”

“Yes,” Harry said, because there was nothing else to do when Kingsley called him Instructor Potter.

“It’s an Auror matter,” Robards said, pushing forward. “Harry Potter has no—” 

“Chief Robards,” Shacklebolt went on. “As Academy faculty, Instructor Potter serves as liaison to this office. He also—as you might recall—has personal experience with the Death Eaters who may be involved. He’s also Mister Malfoy’s instructor in Auror training, so I’m sure you can see the prudence of allowing Instructor Potter to serve in this mission as Mister Malfoy’s handler as well as I can. Can’t you?”

Robards gave his sick smile, absolutely hating this. “Of course.”

“Excellent. You have my word Instructor Potter will not interfere with the mission and restrict his actions to ensuring the safety of Mister Malfoy. Now, is there anything else that needs to be resolved here, or can I trust the Department to handle the planning of this mission on its own?”

Robards grimaced again. “We have it under control, sir.”

Shacklebolt just nodded. “Keep me apprised as the situation develops.” Then the air cracked again, Shacklebolt disappearing into a shimmer and then nothing.

“I think that went rather well,” Malfoy said brightly, after the echo of Shacklebolt’s Apparition finally faded away. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, looking quite at ease, as though nothing significant had happened. “What’s a Ward Bore?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to buildyourwalls, icmezzo, seraphcelene, and siemejay. <3

*

Over the next few days, Harry spent more time at the Auror Department than he had ever wanted to spend there again, planning Malfoy’s infiltration of the meeting at Windermere Hall with several key members of the Auror Department, including Ron and Robards, as well as Malfoy himself.

“Can’t say we’re happy to have you back,” said Robards.

“You know we’ve got this covered, don’t you?” Ron asked, late one night, as Harry sat in Ron’s chair, reviewing the all-too scant notes the Force had on NDEs. “Is this because Malfoy’s . . . you know?”

Harry spared him a glance over his glasses. It wasn’t a very nice glance at all. 

“No, you’re right.” Ron had a hip on the edge of his own desk, fiddling with the quills. “Don’t suppose him fancying you would make a difference. You always feel responsible for everyone regardless.”

“I don’t feel responsible for everyone.”

“Hermione says the same thing. Somehow, though, I think if I’m the one responsible for the two of you—well. We’ve got the whole world covered.” Sliding off the desk, Ron stood, moving across the room to examine the Ward Bores and leaving Harry to his work.

“Potter, I know you think you’re the only one who can handle the problems of the world,” Malfoy said on another night, just after rolling out of the Floo, “and it may have escaped your notice, but I don’t need a handler. I’m not one of your little cadets.”

“I told you I would keep you safe,” Harry said, holding out the Auror badge so that they could port to the Ministry for another planning session.

“And Harry Potter always keeps his promises.” Malfoy had walked to the window again, drawn there as though he strongly identified with the garden’s weeds—which made sense. At the moment, Harry would be happy without either on his property. “Here’s a thought.” Suddenly Malfoy turned on his heel to face him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t be Harry Potter. Just this once. Try it on. Just . . . I’ve got it.” Malfoy snapped his fingers. “You could be a normal bloke! Don’t be a hero. Don’t keep your promises. Just sit back, faff about with a Fire Whiskey, go to bed early, and then maybe—next week, go back to being Harry Potter. Or don’t. Who knows? You could be happy being no one at all.”

Harry stared at him uncomprehendingly, less because he couldn’t comprehend and more because he didn’t want to comprehend. “How could I be happy if you get yourself killed?”

Malfoy stared back. Dusk was falling on the weedy garden, and his eyes were luminous in the fading light. “You mean because you encouraged me to turn my memory in to the Ministry.”

“Yes. No.” Harry gritted his teeth. “Because you would be killed.”

“And you don’t want me to be killed.”

“Malfoy. I don’t want anybody to be killed.”

“I wonder what that feels like.” Another pause settled around the room, filling the shadows the light was vacating. “I see,” Malfoy said abruptly. “You could never not be Harry Potter. I’m sorry for suggesting it.” Then he walked forward, grabbing the badge so that Harry had to flail to grab a hold so that Malfoy didn’t port without him.

“You’re not studying for your other exams,” Harry told him later that night, while they were reviewing possible positions for the Ward Bores.

“The only one I needed studying for was yours,” Malfoy said, not looking up from his diagrams. “Look how well that turned out.”

Harry wanted to offer him sympathy. He didn’t know what to say. “The other instructors say you’re brilliant.”

Pink sprang into Malfoy’s cheeks, and he looked up swiftly. “Savage?”

“The other instructors besides Savage say you’re brilliant.”

Sniffing, Malfoy looked back down at his work. “I’ll win her over. Matter of time.”

Time was already out. Graduation was next week. Harry turned back to the Bores.

*

By Wednesday, the preparation for Draco to infiltrate the NDE meeting at Windermere Hall was complete. Robards would not let them come Thursday night to plan the mission further, claiming that additional planning would only exhaust everyone and changes in plan would confuse everyone. Harry itched to point out how little faith Robards was showing in his team, but then thought of Malfoy, and was silent. It was true. Malfoy could use the rest.

Harry himself wanted to visit Kavika, but Kingsley was partially responsible for Harry’s current anxieties, and Harry wasn’t sure he wouldn’t blame him if he talked to Kavika about what was bothering him. He didn’t want to put her in the position of having to defend her husband. 

Only rarely had their social connections interfered with his therapy, but Harry still remembered what she had told him from the beginning. She was helping him because she knew his particular special circumstances, and because he had been in a very bad place when Hermione had first reached out to her. Kavika had warned him, however, that when their personal lives intersected, she might not be able to help. 

She had also told him she shouldn’t be his only resource when he felt he needed what she called _emotional support_. For a while, Harry had thought he had understood. After all, he had Hermione and Ron.

“They can’t be your only emotional support,” Kavika had said.

“Why not?” Harry had wanted to know. “They always have been.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Kavika said. “We’ll talk more about that as we go on.”

They’d talked more about it. She’d asked him for names of his other friends. He’d told her she could look at the _Daily Prophet_ if she wanted to know; his personal life was spilled all over it. She’d ignored this and had him make a list.

“Some of these aren’t even people I talk to all that much,” Harry said, looking at the list that contained old Hogwarts mates from Quidditch and the DA, Teddy, and the Weasleys. “I can’t just go to them and say, ‘look, I know we haven’t talked in months, but I need to dump all my problems on you now because I was suicidal a few months back.’”

Kavika had ignored this as well. “Emotional support can be about communicating your feelings and your problems,” she said. “It can also be about spending time with someone you care about, doing something that you like, and getting to hear about someone else for a change. From what you’ve told me, you don’t particularly value isolation. Why, then, are you isolated?”

“They don’t want to see me,” Harry had said at the time, but eventually he’d found that the reason he felt that way was he thought they couldn’t want to see him. Then he’d found that he thought he wasn’t worth seeing, for reasons unknown to himself, for reasons that had to do with being an orphan, maybe, or the fact that Mum, Dad, Sirius, and Lupin had all died.

“People will want to see you,” Kavika had said, a few years later, after more sessions than Harry could count. “You only have to ask.”

Now was one of those times when Harry couldn’t go to Kavika for _emotional support_. He couldn’t go to Ron either, because even though Ron would always be supportive, no matter what Harry did, Harry knew that Ron _wanted_ Malfoy on the Parkinson raid, and didn’t really see why Harry didn’t. Malfoy wasn’t Ron’s trainee; Ron had never been an instructor. He didn’t know. And even if Hermione would see, she would want to support Ron too.

So, Harry went down the list—Ginny, who would not understand concern for Malfoy in the least; Molly, who wouldn’t understand it either. In fact, scratch all the Weasleys off the chart; they were forgiving, but not at all forgetful, and Harry would be hard-pressed to convince them none of this had anything to do with Malfoy himself and everything to do with the fact that Harry had made a promise. Scratch off Neville, too, because he was in Argentina, and Teddy—well. Teddy was still mad about Harry’s press conference. So was Vinicius, come to think of it. Vinicius should probably have been higher on the list, Harry thought, guiltily. He really did have an excellent tongue.

In the end, Harry spent the evening with the most logical choice, someone he should have known to call all along, someone who always understood him and always cared.

*

Atop a London skyscraper in a bubble of warm silence, strange magical plants and creatures lived hidden from non-mag eyes by very specific warding spells. When Harry rang the magic bell that led to the roof, Luna answered in nothing but a large white towel. “I’m going to take a bath,” she said, taking the bottle of Giants’ Gin from Harry’s hand. “You should come.”

Her towel dropped as she turned away, but at least she was wearing pants, and Harry was used to Luna. This was how he ended up lying in nothing but his shorts in the warm, lime-blue water of Luna’s pool, buoyed by viridescent pearls, apparently a kind of magic algae. They rubbed gently along Harry’s skin as he floated in the water, looking up at the floating spectre of a moon, lit gold by the length its light travelled through the atmosphere. 

“I never understood why you live here,” Harry said, the algae massaging his feet now.

“I’m not sure you ever asked,” Luna said, floating beside him. Her hair had spread out in the water like rays of a sun, one ray brushing Harry’s shoulder as gently as the algae.

“All right, well.” Harry turned from the pale profile of Luna’s face to look back up at the moon. The raft of algae rippled under him in response to some unknown force, then went back to gentle bobbing. “I’m asking.”

“We like London.” Luna’s voice was always a little slow, a little soft. “We like how bright and busy it is. We wanted to be a part of it. We don’t like how dirty it is. How unkind. We also wanted not to be a part of it.”

Through the film of the wards protecting Luna’s home, the sky was brighter than a London sky, clearer but also streaked with unnatural colour, traces of green and violet. “I get that,” Harry finally said.

“I thought you would.”

For a while they said nothing. Sometimes one of the little algae balls burst, bathing Harry with something smooth and gooey, which rolled up against his skin, making a new little ball, which popped back into the water with the sound of soda fizz.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Luna said.

“Talk about what?”

“What brought you here.”

_What makes you think I don’t just want your company?_ Harry didn’t ask it, because it highlighted just how much it had not occurred on him to call Luna just for the sake of her company, even though that was all he really wanted tonight.

“I don’t mind, Harry,” Luna said. “Friends need each other. That’s what friends are for.”

Harry turned his head on the algae bed. “Have I ever been there when you needed me?”

“Yes.” She turned to him as well. “You helped me find the Snuffleupagus. You came to my father’s funeral. You helped my wife learn Occlumency. Would you like me to go on listing things?”

“Sort of.” The joke was mostly a result of embarrassment. 

Luna looked back up at the sky. “I could write them in a poem,” she said, “if you want it. So you remember.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, overwhelmed. Then, in a rush: “It’s Draco Malfoy.”

“I haven’t kept in touch,” Luna said.

“He’s a trainee at the Academy.”

“He must have changed.”

“Oh.” Harry thought about this, because of course, she was right. “He has. To an extent.”

“I suppose we can only ever change as far as we extend.”

Harry looked at the moon. It occurred to him that the protective wards must be what made it appear unnaturally large. “He’s being asked to do something. Something dangerous.”

“Is he now fond of danger? He didn’t used to be.”

“I don’t know. I’m his instructor. I’m meant to keep him _out_ of danger.”

“Is that how one learns to be an Auror? By keeping out of danger?”

“No, I’m meant to—I’m meant to teach them to protect themselves.” Harry stirred in the algae, suddenly frustrated by the gentleness of them, the ambient warmth of the water. “That’s what I’m meant to do; only, that’s not what Aurors are for—staying out of danger. How is it any better than sending a child to war? _Is_ it any better?”

“Draco Malfoy isn’t a child.”

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” Harry said. “He’s not an Auror either. And is it true that Aurors aren’t children? I’m training them; I’m training Teddy, and what if . . . ? Malfoy only wanted to be an Auror in the first place so he could—” Harry cut himself off.

“Draco Malfoy.” Luna closed her eyes. She wasn’t wearing any top, and the moon bathed her breasts a luminescent colour under the film of bright water. Her eyes popped open. “You know he kept me in a dungeon? He didn’t come to save me, anyway.”

“I don’t mean anything he’s done is okay,” Harry said, realizing too late that he’d jumped in rather media res.

“I remember that dungeon,” Luna said. “Sometimes I dream about trying to get out.”

Harry knew that. They’d talked about it before. He’d talked to everyone on the list, about the things that had happened in the war. Kavika had told him to.

“Other times,” said Luna, “I realize I only dream of it because I need to get out of something. It’s easier when you can imagine there are walls. You were locked in a dungeon too, weren’t you?”

“Er.” Harry played with the little algae pearls, wondering if he was missing something. “I don’t think so?”

“Oh,” Luna said. “I thought maybe you were, once.”

Harry thought about his aunt and uncle. The algae bumped against him gently, bursting and rolling into reformation on his skin.

“You saved me,” Luna said, turning on her raft of algae to face him. “You got me out, and I’m alive. But sometimes I think the only way out is to burn down the whole house.”

Harry thought he knew what Luna was saying: that the danger was worth it. Perhaps, by infiltrating the Neo Death Eater meeting at Windermere Hall, Malfoy was escaping his own dungeon.

“I’m not talking about Malfoy, obviously,” Luna went on. 

“You’re talking about Reveal.” 

“Maybe they’re the same thing,” Luna said. “Malfoy Manor. The wizarding world.”

“Dungeons,” Harry said.

The moon shone like a galleon, spreading largess amidst the sky.

*

Anti-Apparition wards were strong magic. Multiple wizards with powerful magic could create them over the course of several hours, which meant that to dismantle them took just as many wizards and just as much time. A Ward Bore, however, was a way to temporarily disrupt these wards, usually just long enough for one person to Apparate inside a protected area.

Usually a disruption charm was cast on a small object such as a quill or coin to create a Ward Bore. Once dropped within, the charm began its work, boring a small hole into the anti-Apparition ward. If the charm was strong enough, eventually the hole in the ward would grow large enough for a person to Apparate inside the protected area, but Apparition was also strong magic. The force of the Apparition usually collapsed the hole, thereby keeping everyone contained within the wards.

Malfoy had five Bores, which would allow five Aurors to infiltrate the NDE meeting at Windermere Hall. They would only Apparate, however, once evidence of criminal activity had been secured, either through Malfoy’s Insight Contacts or Hearing Raid. Malfoy was also wearing a Whisper Wire, which was a small ring inside his ear, charmed with a spell that linked it to a separate Wire in the Auror Department. This separate Wire was Harry’s. When he spoke into it, Malfoy would hear Harry’s voice in his ear. The Insight Contacts, shaped like contacts and fitting over the eyes, were magically linked to a large glass dome, called the Insight Contact: Wizard Unifying Transmitter/Uber Conductor—IC:WUT/UC for short—which would show them what Malfoy saw. The Hearing Raid was an Extendable Ear Spello-taped under Malfoy’s shirt. The other half of the Extendable Ear was linked to a gramophone horn in the Auror Department, so everyone could hear what Malfoy heard. 

The night of the NDE meeting, Harry sat at a desk with the Whisper Wire, while Robards and the four other Aurors who would Apparate to the meeting stood arrayed around the IC:WUT/UC. Robards had insisted on being one of the Aurors in on the action, claiming that Harry Potter could “steal the glory” and Shacklebolt could “seize control,” but no one would stop him from doing his sworn duty. Pretty much everyone knew that Robards wanted his name in the headlines, and that the only way to get it there if Harry Potter was involved would be to finally step out from behind a desk and do something worthwhile.

Apparition with Ward Bores had to be precise. If the Aurors didn’t Apparate to the exact location of the holes created by the Bores, they could splinch themselves within the Anti-Apparition wards, which would certainly compromise the mission. Therefore, in order to Apparate, the Aurors had to physically see the Ward Bores. That meant that Malfoy had to place the five Bores in such a way that he would be able to look at all five at once. Furthermore, each Ward Bore was a different colour, each colour assigned to a different Auror, so no two Aurors would Apparate to the same spot. 

Once the NDEs had done something sufficiently criminal, Robards would inform Malfoy, and Malfoy would make sure he had a good view. Once he had a good view, the Aurors would see where they needed to go in the IC:WUT/UC, then Apparate in. Another team of Aurors had already been established in a wide perimeter around Windermere Hall, so that once the NDEs tried to flee their own Anti-Apparition wards on foot or broom, more Aurors would be waiting to catch them.

Malfoy’s arrival at Windermere Hall was not auspicious. The witch at the door, whom Harry recognized as a Bulstrode cousin, did not want to admit Malfoy. Malfoy was not amused. “You invite me to the party and then don’t let me in? Rude.”

“You weren’t invited.” The Bulstrode witch tried to put the door, but Malfoy waved his wand.

“ _Alohamora._ ” Since the door hadn’t quite been closed, the spell banged the door open against the wall. “Yes, I was.”

“Easy,” Harry said into the Whisper Wire.

“I apologize,” Malfoy said smoothly. “I’m difficult. Part of my charm.”

“Charms are prohibited,” said the Bulstrode witch.

“I meant my magnetism. My winning ways. My obvious, how do you say, _savoir vivre_.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Excellent. Neither do I. Is Edgar Travers about? He invited me. Half-blood. He has a distinctive head. We don’t like him, but we tolerate him. Anything to avoid pushing the wizarding world to the breaking point, don’t you agree?”

The Bulstrode witch, who had lovely large blue eyes, pursed her lips. “I’ll go check.” Turning, she disappeared into the manor, while the image on the IC:WUT/UC showed the Malfoy was following.

“Wait until she comes back,” Harry told the Whisper Wire.

The image in the IC:WUT/UC turned to show the doorframe, then stopped. Malfoy must be leaning against the frame. “How are the folks back home?” he murmured.

“Don’t talk,” Harry told him.

“Really? I’ve talked so much already. She’ll think it strange if I go silent.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Seriously,” Malfoy went on. “How are we all doing? Bored, yet? Worried? Tired? Hungry?”

“Pay attention, Malfoy.”

“I told you to eat, Potter.”

The image in the IC:WUT/UC turned again, showing the main entrance corridor of Windermere Hall, with Travers walking down it. “You made it!” Travers said, looking young and honestly pleased.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Malfoy said.

“Come along,” said Travers. “Straight this way.”

The image in the IC:WUT/UC moved along the corridor to a grand marble staircase, then swung left down another corridor, past a few doors and a large mirror along the hall, beyond which stood a set of ornate double-doors. Travers opened one of these, admitting them both to what seemed to be a library, with over a dozen people seated around a table. One of the figures rose upon their entrance, and as they walked toward Malfoy and Travers, Malfoy dropped a white marble on the floor, looking down at it so that the view on the IC:WUT/UC showed the full view of it, resting on an emerald rug.

“Mister Malfoy.” The view on the IC:WUT/UC snapped back up to Mister Parkinson, who was holding out his hand. Travers had moved across the room to take a seat. “My daughter tells me you’ve become too cosmopolitan for our little provincial meetings, but I always hoped you would return to the fold.”

“Did Pansy call it provincial?” Malfoy took Parkinson’s hand. “I rather hoped she might be here.”

“She believes in the cause,” Parkinson assured him, “but as ever, is disinclined to action.”

“How disappointing,” Malfoy said, sounding terribly relieved about it.

“Careful,” Harry told the Whisper Wire.

“Rumours of our romance were wildly exaggerated, of course,” Malfoy went on carelessly. “She’s hardly my type. I prefer green eyes.”

Harry’s breath caught. Was Malfoy seriously going to do this _now_? Over the Hearing Raid?

Parkinson just laughed. “Of course. Astoria is suited to you perfectly. You’ll make a fine pure-blood family. Come along, there’s someone I want you to see.”

As Malfoy followed Parkinson to the table, he dropped a yellow marble, creating another discoloured patch in emerald green and Harry had forgotten completely that Astoria Greengrass existed. When he looked back up, someone was already rising from the table. 

“Uncle.” Malfoy’s voice was rough, and then the IC:WUT/UC moved swiftly, and it was clear from the view that Malfoy was drawing close to Rodolphus Lestrange, perhaps even embracing him. “I thought you were dead.”

“Didn’t your father tell you?” Rodolphus said, drawing back.

There was a silence, perhaps a little too long.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, and Draco instantly began speaking.

“I’d heard no word of you since the war. You’re saying Father has seen you?”

Rodolphus shook his head. “I sent him an owl, but somehow it was intercepted by that joke of a Force. They called your Father in for questioning . . . he disavowed me. I thought he might have told you . . . I thought perhaps that’s why you were training to become one of them . . .”

“No,” Malfoy said. “I worked that out on my own. Father . . .” He trailed off. “Let’s say he wasn’t active enough for me.”

“He will come back to us,” Rodolphus said. “He values our heritage and traditions.”

“Oh, very much so. I didn’t mean to imply he would ever stoop to caring about Muggles or allowing filthy Mudbloods to pollute the family line, or anything of that nature. How could I ever insult my own father in such a way? No, his views are very much the same as ever. He’s only temporarily lost his way.”

Rodolphus’s eyes were alight in response to this speech. “Will you show it to him?”

“I’m trying,” Malfoy said, glancing back at the door to give the IC:WUT/UC a view of the two objects on the floor.

“They’re fine,” Harry said quickly. “Pay attention.”

“It’s hard,” Malfoy said, gaze swinging back to Rodolphus, “when people say such disgusting things.”

“That’s part of the reason we’re here, nephew.” Rodolphus reached out in the IC:WUT/UC, perhaps squeezing Malfoy’s shoulder. “Please. Be seated.”

“Can I sit by my uncle, please?” Malfoy asked, once the IC:WUT/UC’s view had switched to the empty seat, then back to Parkinson. “It’s just been so long since I’ve seen him.”

“Good,” Harry said, since the suggested position would allow Malfoy to keep the Ward Bores in view.

Parkinson nodded, and Malfoy went on, “Only don’t speak to me. It breaks my concentration to have someone in my ear if others are speaking.”

“Hear that, Potter?” Robards turned from the IC:WUT/UC to snap at Harry. “He doesn’t need reassurance!”

Harry bit his lip. Reassurance, of course, was what he offered all of his students, but now Harry was remembering what praise did to Malfoy. Too long had passed, perhaps, since Harry was an Auror.

On the IC:WUT/UC, a blue marble lay in the green carpet. Malfoy had dropped one by the empty chair, then he moved to sit beside Rodolphus. There, he dropped a purple marble, a little behind the chair so as not to be seen by those sitting beside him. Only the green marble was left, which Malfoy had likely saved because it would be harder to see on the green carpet. Good thinking.

“We’re gathered here today to discuss the horrific implications of Reveal on the wizarding economy, culture, and way of life,” Parkinson was saying. “First, let’s discuss our political efforts.”

There followed a political discussion about pure-blood efforts to break up Shacklebolt’s coalition in the Ministry of Magic. Though disturbing, none of the ideas or actions discussed were particularly illegal, and Malfoy spent the time looking about the room. This gave the Aurors waiting in the Ministry a better understanding of the dimensions and exits. 

In front of Draco was the table, around which sat a dozen or so witches and wizards. Harry recognized all of them, though he didn’t necessarily remember all their names. Some were old classmates from Hogwarts, others relatives of classmates or people he had met in the Ministry, varying in age from early twenties to late seventies.

Beyond the table stood the double-doors Malfoy had entered, the marbles he had trailed after him just visible above tufts of carpet. To the right, the other half of the room was raised, such that one had to step up two steps to reach the row after row of bookcases, placed perpendicular to the table, so that the corridors of books could be seen if one was seated. These corridors were long enough that beyond them lay darkness. To the left of the table stood a bank of windows in mahogany frames, showing the dark night. At one point, Draco glanced behind him to give the Aurors in the room the sight of the back wall, on which hung floor-to-ceiling portrait of Salazar Slytherin. Sconces were lit on either side of the portrait, and on the floor below it was a large, ornate trunk. Salazar was sitting in a chair and appeared to be listening, almost as though he was attending the meeting as well.

“Now we come to the main business of the evening,” Parkinson was saying. “We’re all aware of Riddle’s tactic of using Dementors in his attempts to put some measure of control on the Muggle pestilence. However, like most of our Lord’s doomed schemes, the effort favoured drama and spectacle, rather than precision and control. Dementors are a blunt instrument. They’re as likely to Kiss a pure-blood wizard as they are Mudblood scum.”

“But wizards can cast a Patronus. Muggles can’t. Surely that’s something,” said Josias Flint, one of Marcus’s cousins. 

“Not every witch or wizard can cast a Patronus,” said Miles Bletchley.

“Besides,” said Felixana Bole, a Councillor strongly opposed to Reveal. “Some of the New Blood has found the key to quick and easy happiness through destruction of our traditions. How can we continue to have happy memories when we see our way of life eroding away before our eyes?”

“Which is why we have been seeking a way to control the Dementors,” said Parkinson. “And at long last, we’ve found one.”

“So you’ve said before,” said Bletchley, “but none of the experiments have worked.”

“We knew you would be sceptical,” said Parkinson, “so tonight we’ve prepared a demonstration. Rodolphus?”

“Of course,” said Rodolphus, fluidly standing to go to the trunk by the back wall. “In this trunk are three Dementors.”

“Awfully subdued,” said Bole, seeming sceptical.

“Naturally. As Damien explained, we’ve learned to control them. Now,” Rodolphus went on, twisting one of the sconces on the wall. “Behind this wall, is a Muggle.”

“Awfully subdued!” called out Salazar Slytherin, laughing, as the portrait slowly pushed back, then slid behind the panelled wall to the right. 

As the portrait slid away, the dark space behind became illuminated by the flickering light of the sconces, gradually revealing emerged a round man, probably in his mid forties. He had a round, friendly face and round, terrified eyes, petrified completely by a Full-Body Bind Curse. The trunk remained in front of him, huge, closed, and now ominous.

Many voices spoke at once, and Harry covered the Whisper Wire so that another voice wouldn’t be added to Malfoy’s ears. “What are we waiting for?” he demanded.

“Evidence,” said Robards.

“They’ve captured an innocent man,” Harry said. “What evidence do we need?”

“Wait,” was all Robards said, and Harry refocused on the Hearing Raid.

“In an uncontrolled situation,” Parkinson was saying, “one Dementor might feast upon this unappetizing meal.” He gestured at the non-mag man. “The others, however, would see a crowded room of powerful, pure wizards, and see more souls to be taken. You’ll note in this experiment, however, that all three Dementors only evince interest in the Muggle. Not unless we go between the Dementor and its prey will the dark spirit even notice us.”

The view on the IC:WUT/UC swung to the door, to the trail of four marbles. “Now?” Malfoy said softly.

“Now,” said Rodolphus, though the question wasn’t for him, and desperately, Harry put his hand over the Whisper Wire.

“Captain Robards!”

“Wait!” shouted Robards.

Meanwhile, Rodolphus was opening the trunk.

The Dementors emerged like slow smoke, coiling out of the trunk in slowly growing waves of shadow. Their hoods slowly tuned, taking in the room, as though taking in its scents.

The view on the IC:WUT/UC swung away again, showing the door, the marbles. “Really, any time now.” Malfoy’s voice was tremulous under his breath.

“Robards!” Harry shouted.

“It’s my mission!” Robards shouted back.

Malfoy’s eyes were back on the Dementors, whose black, shadowy heads were turning, almost as one, to the poor body-bound non-mag behind the trunk. They pooled like a swarm around the figure of the man; then one Dementor head leaned in for the Kiss. The view in the IC:WUT/UC was almost desperate as it swung back toward the door and marbles.

“Now!” Robards shouted, and Aurors began to Apparate, which wasn’t how this was meant to go. Robards was meant to tell Harry, so Harry could tell Malfoy, so Malfoy could place the final marble and keep them all in view as the other Aurors Apparated. 

“Fuck!” said Ron, who was the one left without a Ward Bore, but it was too late. Aurors were popping into the room; the witches and wizards gathered there were turning to them, and then—the view on the IC:WUT/UC was back to the Dementors, then moving—moving—moving—Malfoy had to be leaping _over_ the trunk, then all was black and shadow. Next, the face of the non-mag, still unmoving under the effect of the Full-Body Bind. Next, the face of a Dementor, that grey skin, those dead eyes, that black hole of a mouth.

Harry didn’t remember the last time he had seen one so close. Malfoy had jumped directly in front of the non-mag, thrusting himself between the man and the Dementor, and now—and now, he was getting Kissed.

“Malfoy! Expecto Patronum! Malfoy! Now!” Harry could do nothing but watch it on the IC:WUT/UC; the anti-Apparition ward was still in place; he hadn’t dropped the last Ward Bore. Harry wouldn’t be able to see it now, even if Malfoy did drop it. “Malfoy,” Harry said into the Wire, “remember when you did your Patronus for me? And I was behind you; I showed you how to stand. You came up with that memory, that beautiful memory; you relaxed and let it fill you. Let it fill you, Malfoy; relax; let me in; I know you can do it. I know you can do it; I’ve seen you. I believe in you. Do it for me. Do it for me.”

Silver light filled the IC:WUT/UC, and at first, Harry thought that one of the Aurors in the room had been able to stop dueling the NDEs long enough to save Malfoy, but no. The Dementor Kissing Malfoy startled back, and the Patronus was a stag.

“Brilliant,” Harry breathed. “Brilliant, Malfoy. It’s magnificent; now look in the trunk.”

“What?” Draco croaked.

“Look in the trunk; do it for me now.”

For a moment, the view on the IC:WUT/UC didn’t change, showing the retreating Dementors, the gloriously large stag, the Aurors battling three NDEs each behind them. Then the view slowly, almost with effort, pulled down into the trunk. “Good,” Harry whispered. “That’s so good; drop the marble. Do it now.”

The marble dropped.

“Good,” Harry said again. “Keep looking at it,” and then Ron was there. Beautiful, glorious Ron, broad-shouldered and tall.

“Not bad, Malfoy,” Ron said, then immediately turned, petrifying three NDEs one straight after another—two duelling Robards, another duelling a different Auror. Then he was leaping out of the trunk to join the remaining fray.

“Draco,” Harry said.

“Patience,” Malfoy quipped, and the view on the IC:WUT/UC turned back to the non-mag man. “Finite Incantatem. Hullo there,” he added, when the man began to sag. Malfoy must have put an arm around the man, because the view changed, looking back out over the room with the edge of someone’s shoulder in the IC:WUT/UC. “Don’t worry, Mister Non-Mag Man. You are in a very frightening dream that will some day become your horrifying reality, when Reveal comes to pass, but don’t worry. Hermione Granger will have a Deal in place, so the nightmare will happen very, very slowly. Come along.”

“That’s not necessary,” Harry told him, as Malfoy guided the man around the trunk and into the library.

“No,” Malfoy agreed, “but it’s fun. Also, true.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” said the man. “Who _are_ you?”

“Your saviour. Stupefy,” Malfoy added, pointing at another NDE as he guided the man out of the room. The NDE battling Ron fell to the ground unconscious.

“Thanks!” Ron called, turning to help another fellow Auror.

“Don’t mention it.” Malfoy turned to look at the non-mag man. “I do this all the time. Rescuing people. Stopping bad guys. It’s kind of my job.”

“Studying to be your job,” Harry told him. “Maybe you could have stayed in the safe space while the Aurors handle the—”

“And let them get all the glory?” Malfoy asked. “Hardly. Protego!” A witch had just escaped an Auror spell. Seeing Malfoy escape, she had tried to cast an Unforgivable, but Malfoy’s shield was just quick enough. “Petrificus Totalus! Did you see that stag earlier?” As the witch fell over in the Body Bind, Malfoy looked forward, where shadows of retreating Dementors blocked the doorway out. “That was mine,” Malfoy went on. “I made it. I could do it again.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said.

“Expecto Patronum,” Malfoy said, almost carelessly, but it worked. It worked beautifully. The stag was as big and bright as the last time, forceful in its sudden brilliance. The Dementors fled, and Malfoy continued toward the door.

“It really is a nightmare,” said the man, who fainted.

The view in the IC:WUT/UC tipped down to look at the unconscious man. “Do they always do this?” Malfoy asked.

“Only when you’re too busy showing off to take care of a victim who is obviously traumatized,” Harry told him.

“I wasn’t showing off. This is my natural state.” Malfoy must have looked back up to gauge his surroundings, because the view in the IC:WUT/UC showed two of the Aurors putting the remaining NDEs in Body-Binds and a third Auror checking the room for any other hidden dangers. Ron, who had just finished collecting the wand of an unconscious witch, looked around, and, seeing Malfoy, came closer in the IC:WUT/UC view.

“Where’s Robards?” Harry asked, an uncomfortable feeling beginning to crawl up his spine.

“Fainted, did he?” Ron was saying, gesturing to the man in Malfoy’s arms. “They do that all the time.”

“Maybe he went after the Dementors?” Malfoy hazarded, glancing toward the doors. “Robards,” he told Ron, who could hear Harry over the Wire.

“Shit,” said Ron.

Just then, muffled sounds became apparent over the Hearing Raid, interspersed with a clicking with which Harry was very familiar.

“What?” Malfoy asked.

“Smile,” Ron said, putting his hand on Malfoy’s shoulder, then turning toward the library’s doors, which burst open.

The reporters poured in like garbage down a chute, fast and loose and like they belonged. Bulbs flared and went out, and above the chatter of questions was Robards, shouting, “I led the mission! I’m available for interview!”

“Hullo,” Malfoy said, “I’m Auror Malfoy, and this is the non-mag I’ve saved from certain death.” The reporters all circled him. “In case you’re wondering, yes, I _did_ use the Malfoy name and considerable influence to infiltrate a ring of neo-Death Eater scum, and yes I _did_ single-handedly fend off three mind-controlled Dementors to save the wizarding world, and yes, I _am_ open for questions at this time.”

“Aren’t you still a trainee?” demanded one of the reporters.

“How did you become involved in this mission?” asked another.

“Is it true that Kingsley Shacklebolt himself deputized you?” said a third. 

“Why did I do it?” Malfoy asked, even though no one had asked it. “I’ve heard that some Old Blood families are particularly interested in a pure-blood former Death Eaters becoming Aurors.” Another bulb went off, and Malfoy turned directly to the camera. “I thought it was time I showed them just what sort of Auror I intend to be.”

*

When Harry first instructed members of Dumbledore’s Army, and later for the brief time he had taught at Hogwarts, he used to tell students that casting a Patronus would eventually click. Most applicants accepted to the Academy were already fairly adept with the spell, but a few people sometimes struggled. Those trainees, Harry usually helped individually, until they found their way to make it click.

The trick was finding a memory that worked—really worked, not one that was that was tinged with bitterness or regret—giving yourself over to it, then giving it away. You had to surrender to it completely, but when that was done, you had to let it go, bursting out the end of your wand in magical form. Once that succession of feeling became familiar—the surrender, then the sacrifice—casting a Patronus took less concentration. The body remembered the sweetness of allowing the memory its place, but could also let it go more easily, mind and wand becoming one in the moment of expulsion, creating something beautiful in the end.

Malfoy had found that feeling. Harry suspected he would never struggle to cast a Patronus again. “That was the only thing he was failing in class,” Harry said. “He should pass.”

“He was still failing,” said Pillwickle’s green face in the hearth.

Fudge’s green head shook sadly in its own hearth. “I’m afraid we really can’t set a precedent by passing a failing trainee, just because he is a momentary wizarding media sensation.” 

_The Daily Prophet_ , as well as _Witch Weekly_ and _Quibbler_ , had all published front page articles about Draco Malfoy’s infiltration of a Neo Death Eater ring at Windermere Hall, blowing wide any possible follow-up uncover work Malfoy could have done. Harry felt fine about that. Malfoy wasn’t an Auror—not yet, though he would be if Harry had any say about it. Apparently, the Board of Regents thought he didn’t.

“You wanted me to pass a failing student last year.” Harry turned to Fudge. “The only difference now is the _reason_ he’s a ‘media sensation.’ You don’t like that he disrupted one of your little meetings.”

“ _Our_ meetings?” said Fudge.

“Surely you’re not calling the Board of Regents Death Eaters.” In his hearth on the opposite wall in the Chamber of Fires, Bickford bristled. “The Auror Department is a time-honoured institution dedicated to the protection of witch and wizard culture, since the very foundation of—”

“Right.” Harry ripped off his glasses. It was something to do, and he didn’t want to have to look at these people. “What about human culture?”

“Non-mags are different,” Fudge said. “They have their own government. When I was Minister for Magic, I was in _close_ communications with the Muggle Prime Minister—”

“Oh.” Harry put his glasses back on. “You want to talk about when you were Minister? Are we litigating that again? Because as you know, I have _plenty_ to say on that score, if you like.”

“No need to get political,” Pillwickle said, his voice silky. “We were speaking of the Malfoy heir.”

Harry swung to face him. “You are _literally_ politics. You. Here. In this room.” He turned to look at each of them. “You don’t want to pass Draco Malfoy because he busted a blood supremacist soiree, and some of them were your friends.”

“I’m no friend of the Parkinsons’,” Fudge declared, turning up his nose.

“Because they won’t have you.” Harry could feel his jaw clenching. He let it clench, for once, letting himself be angry. “They’ve not invited you. No one wants your stink in their parlour, Fudge; the likes of Parkinson and Flint know your odour would cause the Aurors to scent out their dirty little schemes, and the rest of the world is trying to wash its hands of you.”

“It’s pitiable that you still carry such a grudge, after everything that’s happened.” Fudge shook his head again, looking truly disappointed.

“It’s not a grudge, Fudge,” Harry said. “I could look past the war. I _do_ look past the war. I look straight past it into the thousands of Galleons you’re pouring to the Council and Wizengamot and Diagon Association to sabotage the Deal, and why? Because there’s no profit in Reveal, and that’s all you care about. It’s all you’ve ever cared about.”

“How did this become about Reveal?” Bickford sounded honestly confused.

“You’ve missed the plot, Bernard,” Greengrass said, bored. “Everything with these radical anti-Statute one-Worlders is about Reveal. Beans on toast is about Reveal. They want to suggest that anyone who abides by any perfectly reasonable wizarding traditions—such as, oh, _not failing examinations_ in order to pass a class—is a frothing Voldie-loving baby non-mag-killer by default.”

“Malfoy passed his examination,” Harry said.

“Not according to your marks,” said Pillwickle.

“He passed,” Harry said. “He was shaky in one section, but I held a practicum after—”

“We can’t countenance one of the instructors of our prestigious Academy administering his own little tests for little pet trainees.” Pillwickle’s face always looked vaguely ill, but Harry could never tell whether it was the green of Floo Fire or the sour expression. 

“I don’t even like Malfoy,” Harry said. “It’s on record! If I’m displaying favouritism, I’ve picked a hell of a way to do it.”

“Robards told a different story,” Fudge said.

Slowly, Harry turned back to Fudge, which was part of the point of the Chamber of Fires. Those in the hearths could stay where they were, while the person who had called on them had to constantly turn. “Robards,” Harry said, disgusted. 

“He said you plan to replace Ron Weasley as your Potter proxy in the Auror Force, that you and Draco were _very_ cosy, that you watched him like a nanny—”

“I watched him like an _instructor_. Ron Weasley is his own damn man, and if Robards had shown even half the heart or bravery that Malfoy did—”

“Gawain Robards is Head of the Department!” Bickford’s voice puffed up from behind. “Cast aspersions on pure-bloods all you want, Harry Potter, but do not disdain our time-honoured institutions just because you happen to disagree on matters of policy!”

Harry let Bickford’s voice ring out without turning to face him. He took a breath, then another, then finally turned to Bickford. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “You want to honour our traditions? Let your instructors pass the people who pass their class. Malfoy did well enough on the examination; combined with my newly obtained knowledge of his ability to cast a Patronus, he’s done well enough to graduate to Level Two.”

“Oh,” said Greengrass. “Is that what this is about? Draco Malfoy graduating to Level Two?”

Harry looked at Greengrass wearily, while Bickford piped up, “Yes, of course, Lionel. Instructor Potter’s is the only class the young Mister Malfoy is not passing.”

“Is that so?” Greengrass wasn’t even really feigning disingenuity at this point. “I think I heard he was failing Gordon’s class.”

“He’s not failing Defensive Flying,” Harry said, hating this, hating every second of this. “Baggot said Malfoy was a fantastic student, and Malfoy’s always been excellent on a broom.”

“I seem to remember Slytherin losing several important Quidditch matches,” Greengrass mused.

“When we were _children_. Besides, Malfoy was never really focused on Quidditch; he was always . . .” The realization hit Harry like a tonne of bricks. _Focused on me_ , was the obvious end to the sentence.

“Gordon and I have a close personal relationship.” Greengrass’s voice was smug. “I’m sure he told me Draco Malfoy was failing. I’m sorry you hadn’t heard. I knew you were so invested in the little former Death Eater’s success.”

Harry just stared at him. He couldn’t feel anything in his body, nothing at all. “Why are you doing this? He’s meant to be your son-in-law.”

“He was,” Greengrass agreed pleasantly. “Recently Astoria’s began to find him . . . unreliable. Unpredictable. It’s a shame, really. One would think the union of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black would produce an extraordinary heir, but instead we are left with this . . . little scrap of nothing, really.”

“He’s twice the man you’ll ever be,” Harry said, because it was true.

“I’ve heard he’s recently single.” Greengrass spoke without inflection. “If you’re so interested.”

* 

Graduation day dawned grey and drizzly and remained grey and drizzly, unlike the break-out sun of the years before. Level Ones became Level Twos, and instructors gave Level Twos their graduating certificates under the Timothy Tree. Everyone attended—the Board, guest instructors, the faculty, the trainees—except trainees who had failed and were thereby excluded. This year, neither Travers nor Malfoy were eligible to attend, and no one could stop talking about it.

Apparently, Malfoy had done some interview in _Witch Weekly_ that had the whole wizarding world aflutter. Harry didn’t know what was in the interview: more hashing through the adventure at Windermere Hall, his failure of Level One Auror Academy, the end of his engagement to Astoria Greengrass. Whatever it was, Harry didn’t want to hear about it, Neo Death Eaters and blood supremacy, the Board of Regents and their pure-blood exclusionary politics, pure-blood unions and unborn pure-blood babies. The press was obsessed with every detail of the blood culture it largely helped to support.

Perhaps Harry should have threatened to quit again if the Board didn’t pass Malfoy. He didn’t know. Academy used to be a happy place for him, a safe place. Now, like so many other places in his past, it reeked of blood. Listening to the recently graduated trainees murmur about Malfoy as they prepared for the post-ceremony celebration, Harry resisted the urge to warn them that the Auror Department would grind their bones into blood as well, if for one second they stopped fighting with the hope and conviction they had now.

Now was not the time for such sentiment. Harry bit his tongue.

“You have that, ‘I may leave society and become a hermit for a thousand years’ look on your face,” Ron said, grabbing Harry’s elbow, pulling him away.

Harry followed him with relief. “A thousand is a bit much. Maybe only six or seven hundred years.”

Chuckling, Ron let him go, and they walked into Bickford-Buckley, into its cool dark halls, deficient of people in this happy hour, while everyone else milled about in the square, speaking of Malfoy. 

They walked for a several moments in silence, the hall darker than it usually was on graduation day. Since it was May, the automatic spells on the sconces had not been triggered, but not enough sunlight spilled through the windows to illuminate the shadow. On a sunny day, Bickford-Buckley could look charmingly ancient. On a day like today, the age of the decrepit stone felt oppressive, almost inescapably dank, as though the dampness of centuries could overpower even the strongest drying spells. “I’m sick of this,” Harry said, still miserable.

“The press?” asked Ron.

“No. Yeah. This.” Harry gestured at the hall. “Do you ever think about the house-elves that built this place? Do you ever think about why we built it? It was a stronghold against the Non-Magical World. It was us making our own government, instead of working with theirs.”

Ron looked about the hall, quiet and thoughtful. He was going to turn back to Harry and say something hopeful and reassuring. “I’m sick of it too,” Ron said instead.

Harry raised his brows, and Ron shrugged.

“You grow up with it, you think—this is the way it is,” Ron said. “But Hermione says that lots of non-magical children don’t even know the name of everyone in their schools. Every day, you can meet a stranger. When’s the last time you met someone you don’t know?”

“At the Academy holiday party. Maybe.” Harry looked around at the old stone walls as well. “You’d think people would welcome change.”

“Plenty of people do.”

“Right.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, Harry walked on ahead. “Maybe not enough.”

They walked until they came to the stairs, which led to the first story and Harry’s office. He glanced up there, longing to go but not sure he even wanted to be there. Part of him wanted to be far away, in another country, perhaps, somewhere that wasn’t the wizarding world, that wasn’t the United Kingdom. Harry wasn’t really clear on what the European Union was, but he’d heard they’d made their money all the same. “I heard you,” Ron said at last, as they stood there by the foot of the stair.

Harry looked up at him. 

Ron had his hands in his own pockets, and his gaze on Harry was clear, open, and kind. “At the Auror Department. When everyone had Apparated to Windermere, and the Dementor was Kissing Malfoy. I heard you tell him how to cast a Patronus.”

Harry felt his fists tighten, as though he was being accused of something, but this was Ron. Taking his hands out of his pockets, Harry shifted from foot to foot, then stopped that too.

Ron’s eyes were just so steady. Friendly. “You’re not responsible for him.”

“I’m his instructor.”

“Okay,” said Ron. “You can look after his safety if he’s your student. What I meant was, you don’t have to put yourself on the line. You don’t have to invest in him.”

“I haven’t done,” said Harry.

“That’s all right too.”

Scowling, Harry rubbed the back of his hand. “Say what you’re trying to say, Ron.”

Instead of answering, Ron reached into his pocket, taking out a small rectangle about the size of his thumbnail. “It’s this week’s _Witch Weekly._ ” Harry put out his hand, and Ron dropped the rectangle into it. “I shrank it. I thought you might not have read it.”

“You’re saying I should?”

“I’m saying ‘should’ is a word I don’t think applies when it comes to us and Draco Malfoy.” Ron gave him a melancholy smile. “We don’t owe him anything.”

“I didn’t think I did.” Harry squinted down at the tiny magazine. There was maybe a person on it, but it was like looking at a figure on a coin, too small to decipher properly. After a moment, Harry looked back up. “You don’t think I should have tried to get him passed?”

“You did try.”

“Maybe not hard enough.”

“What did I say about ‘should’?” Ron’s voice was gentle. “One day you and Hermione have to realize you’re not the ones that control the systems. The world would be a lot better if you were.”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m Harry Potter.”

“Yeah.” Ron gave him a rueful smile. “You defeated Voldemort. Not blood supremacy. We all have our part to do.” Looking down, Ron jabbed a finger at the tiny rectangle in Harry’s hand. “Even him.”

“Yeah, see? That’s the problem.” Harry’s hand closed into a fist around the shrunken magazine. “He _did_ do his part. For once. What does he have to show for it?”

“You want him to win awards? Get a parade? Is that what you got first year? Second? Third?”

“Maybe we should have.”

“Yeah, maybe. Maybe we should live in a world without Cornelius Fudge.”

Harry looked longingly up the stairs, toward his office.

“You don’t want to go to the pub to celebrate,” Ron said. “Do you.”

“I will.” Harry swallowed. “Teddy will be there.”

Slowly, Ron nodded, his smile rueful. “Okay. I’ll fend them off, then, and tell them you’ll come around later.”

“Thanks,” Harry said.

“Don’t mention it,” said Ron.

*

At the top of the stairs, Harry walked down the corridor to his office. His door was ajar, and as he pushed it open, he felt premonition sweep upon him. Last year, on this same day of graduation, Malfoy had been waiting here in Harry’s office. Here, he had told Harry he was in love with him. That he would always love him. That he knew him, top to bottom.

Harry entered his office, and there Malfoy stood, back to the door, limned by the drab dreary light through Harry’s window. His hair looked almost silvery, and Harry’s heart tightened in sympathy. They had not really talked since the mission, not privately. Trainees had interview him; students had talked to him and about him. Malfoy had returned to take his remaining exams, but that was all.

Then Malfoy turned from the window, and his face was not quite his face. “Malfoy?” Harry said, and the face-that-was-not-quite-Malfoy’s face slid into a wider, lower brow, a smaller mouth, skin a shade darker. “Teddy.”

“Sorry,” said Teddy. “I was thinking about him.”

They hadn’t spoken much since the press conference. Teddy hadn’t wanted to. “He was brave,” Harry said. “At Windermere Hall. He would make a good Auror.”

“I know,” said Teddy.

Harry came farther into his office. He wanted to apologize to Teddy, for not fighting harder to see that Malfoy passed. For the fact that Malfoy’s marriage had been ruined. For the fact that the Board of Regents existed, and Neo Death Eaters. Harry wanted to apologize that he had held a press conference so that Travers would be expelled. He wanted to apologize to Teddy for his parents dying, and for the fact that Lupin would not leave Hogwarts. “Are you going to the celebration at the pub?”

“I’m sorry,” Teddy said.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I knew what you were trying to do.” Teddy’s voice was slow. “With the press conference. The things you said.”

Harry didn’t want Teddy to apologize. To some extent, he didn’t even want Teddy to understand why he had held the press conference, because it was too soon. Let him believe that Aurors were the good guys, just for a little longer. Let him believe that it was just that simple.

“I wanted it to be black and white,” Teddy went on. “Find some Death Eaters. Stop them from hurting people.” 

“Aurors do do that,” Harry said. “Malfoy just did.”

“He paid for it,” Teddy said.

“It’s worth it.” Harry came closer to Teddy. “It’s worth it to try. I know I said it’s rotten, but I didn’t mean it was rotten to the core. For every person like Robards or Bernard Bickford, there are people like Kingsley and Ron.”

“And the Order of the Phoenix.”

“Right,” said Harry. “There was that, too.”

“There could be again.”

“It disbanded.”

“Right. And I had to quit my band to go to Academy.” Looking off thoughtfully into space, Teddy gave his slow nod, then looked back at Harry, abruptly focusing. “Are we good?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, because he hoped so.

“Good.” Teddy headed toward the door. “Makes you wonder why it’s called a Phoenix, doesn’t it?”

Harry turned, but Teddy was slipping out the door, and Harry didn’t know what to say. Did this mean that Teddy would join the terrorist tearing down the wards? Did it mean he was going to quit Academy and go help Hermione win the Deal? Were he and Malfoy going to start a band? You never knew, with Teddy.

Sliding his hand into the pockets of his ceremonial robes, Harry sunk down to sit on the edge of his desk. The world felt strangely unbalanced, as though he had no way of knowing what might come next. It used to be summer followed graduation, then the start of a new school year. Life had been much easier when it followed the pattern of an academic calendar. 

Inside Harry’s pocket was a small rectangle. Drawing the miniaturized magazine out of his pocket, Harry looked at it in his palm for a moment. Then, swallowing a sigh, he took out his wand and enlarged it. After that he didn’t open it, just stared. The heading under the splashy _Witch Weekly_ said in big block letters: MALFOY SON DISOWNED AFTER SCION’S SHOCKING REVELATION.

“Why do I care about the Malfoy family name?” read the quote from Malfoy, lower on the page. “Anyway, I’m gay.”

*


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to seraphcelene and icmezzo, without whom I would not have written this.
> 
> I also can't express the amount of time, patience, and enthusiasm siemejay has given this story, from cheerleading to editing to honest opinions to thoughtful, in-depth comments to compassionate understanding and sympathy. I am overwhelmed by the debt of gratitude that I am so glad to owe you.
> 
> This story is now done. I am currently editing and will be posting a chapter every few days. Sorry for the long waits.
> 
> This Astoria was inspired by Buildyourwalls.

*

**Part III**

*

“I’ve a subject to bring up,” said Penelope to the instructors of the Auror Academy seated around the table. “Draco Malfoy.”

“Oh, here we go,” said Savage.

“We’re past the subject of new applicants,” Baggot said blandly.

“New applicants.” Spragg snorted.

“What we should be past,” said Penelope, “is Draco Malfoy at Level One, when he has obviously proven himself _more_ than capable of ascending to Level Two—”

Now Savage was the one to snort. “Whatever happened to not wanting Death Eaters at Auror Academy?”

“Young Master Malfoy has yet to perfect the Flanders Flip.” Baggot’s voice was still bland.

“What happened to not wanting _bigotry_ in the Auror Force?” Spragg asked of Savage.

Penelope was facing off Baggot. “The Flanders Flip, as you well know, is a _Quidditch_ manoeuvre –”

“I _don’t_ want bigotry in the Auror Force _or_ Academy,” said Savage, “which is why the idea of having a former _Death Eater_ amongst our trainees sticks in my craw, no matter _how_ many covers of _Witch Weekly_ feature ‘Draco, Disowned’ poofing about with—”

“Why would a manoeuvre used _solely_ on the Quidditch field be used as the determining factor for failing marks?” Penelope.

“You have a problem with Draco’s sexuality?” Spragg.

“I never said anything of the kind.” Savage.

“And, if you would care to look at the record, provided by Lee Jordan of RevealRadio, you would know that Draco Malfoy executed a _perfect_ Flanders Flip in the Slytherin V Hufflepuff match fifth year.” Penelope again.

“Are we really having this conversation again?” Now Povey, moaning a little.

“No.” Baggot. “The Board accepted Draco Malfoy’s application.”

“No thanks to you!” Penelope’s cheeks were growing red.

“Well, partially thanks to him,” said Savage. “If Baggot hadn’t failed him, he wouldn’t have had to apply again. A third time.”

“And _maximum_ thanks to the RevealRadio exposé,” added Spragg, “which revealed the conspiracy of the Board of Regents _against_ re-admitting Malfoy.”

“Now that part is alleged,” said Penelope.

“You know what’s not alleged?” said Savage. “Draco Malfoy put up He Who Must Not Be Named in _his own home_ , during the war, and do you know what else—?”

“He must be named,” said Baggot.

“By you?” Spragg sneered. “Lucky you were with MACUSA during the last war, wasn’t it? Now you can be here to start a whole new war again!”

Outside, the branches of the Timothy Tree could not be seen, so thick were they with green. Under it stood the stone bench, weathered and worn by students and time. Each autumn, its leaves fell. Each winter, it stood naked. Each spring, it began the process of growing new leaves again, and Harry wondered whether it was worth the effort. Beginning again, over and over, the same cycle year after year—did a tree ever grow tired? Did it ever simply want to stop?

Harry, looking down at the Timothy Tree through the window of Bickford-Buckley, thought of Malfoy, under the Timothy Tree. Malfoy, who had applied again to Auror Academy, despite failing twice. Malfoy, who never stopped. He had grown new leaves—in the magazines, anyway, in the newspapers. He’d done an interview for RevealRadio in which he revealed the plot of the Diagon Association, which claimed to be against Reveal but, on the side, was already hiring focus groups of non-magborns to test products specifically targeted to the non-mag market. When Reveal happened, Diagon would be the first to profit from it. “It’s true,” George Weasley had confirmed. “They’re specifically trying to undercut Knockturn by claiming to be in solidarity against Reveal, then getting a jump on the market to profit from it when Reveal happens anyway.”

Malfoy had made a splash also in _Quibbler_ , where it had been reported that the Wizarding World’s most famous disowned Old Blood was “gaining an appreciation for non-mag culture.” Harry knew this for a fact, as Malfoy had asked Teddy to come with him to some non-mag concert. “It’s good for them!” Andromeda had said. Malfoy had owled her directly after the graduation in which he hadn’t participated, stated quite elegantly that he wished to apologize and longed to make amends. Andromeda had shown Harry the owl. “He was a child,” she’d said. “People change!”

And then there was the spread in _Witch Weekly_. “Has that one got Little D Malfoy in it too?” George had said, at one of the Weasley family meals, when Ginny had teased Molly for still having a subscription. “I don’t understand why they keep flashing him about. It’s for witches, innit? _Witch Weekley._ Didn’t he come out of the closet?”

“Which begs the question,” Angelina had said, turning to face him, “why were _you_ looking at it?”

“Scoping blokes, of course,” said George. “Maybe I was looking for someone for Charlie. Maybe for Harry. Maybe for a threesome, sweetpea; _you_ don’t know.” George waggled his brows.

“I think I do know,” said Angelina, who sounded like she thought her husband was trying to get a rise out of her, and that she found her salad more interesting.

“Plenty of women can enjoy ze aesthetic appeal of a well-made body,” said Fleur, “no matter the sexuality.”

“Oh, sure.” George gulped his Butterbeer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Obviously. If it was a well-made body, I wouldn’t be asking the question.”

“I’m sure plenty feel that the young Malfoy heir’s body iz fit,” said Fleur. “Such things are open to interpretation.”

“Honey,” George said, turning to Angelina, “do you find Little D fit?”

“Compared to you?” Angelina took a sip of water. “As a fiddle.”

“You don’t count.” George turned away from her. “You’ve got a low bar, obviously. Hermione, do you think—”

“Mum said she needed help degnoming,” Ron said, suddenly standing. His chair teetered back with a clatter, and without even looking, Hermione steadied it. Ron cast a worried glance at Harry.

George lit up. “Don’t want to know if your wife has the hots for a—”

“I’ll go with you,” Harry told Ron.

“Harry, do you think mini-Malfoy is hot?” George called after him, but Harry and Ron were already leaving.

“I don’t,” Harry said, once they were out in the garden.

Already wrist-deep in dirt, Ron looked up.

“You were worried I think Malfoy is fit,” Harry said, getting on his knees to dig in the dirt as well. “I just wanted you to know that I don’t. I don’t . . . I just can’t think of him that way.”

Turning back to the little gnome hat he was unearthing, Ron spoke quietly. “I wasn’t worried you thought that. But I wouldn’t be worried if you did.”

That made it sound like Ron still sort of thought that Harry did, but denying it again would sound too insistent, so instead Harry looked down at the dirt for signs of gnomes. “All right.”

“It would never bother me,” Ron said. “Who you wanted. After I was a prat about Gin. It bothered me that George would joke about it—as though people get to decide who they want.”

“George jokes about everything,” Harry had pointed out.

“Some things are serious. I got one.” Ron had struggled with the gnome’s head, and Harry had gone over to help.

“You’re a Concealer, I’ll wager,” Penelope was saying, here, now, in the present. “With your sister on the Council pretending to be ‘neutral.’ I’ll bet she’s the reason Shacklebolt’s lost his coalition.”

“I haven’t spoken to my sister in four years,” Baggot said, still bland. “Though when you consider Shacklebolt’s inefficient leadership, it’s hardly any wonder he can’t get a deal.”

“Inefficient leadership!” Now was the part of the meeting where Savage leapt to her feet, incandescent with rage. “Kingsley Shacklebolt led the Order of the Phoenix to victory against the Dark Lord!”

“I believe that was Harry Potter.” At this point in the meeting, Spragg also turned bland, which meant he was ready at any moment to duel with Savage.

“Is this the same Order of the Phoenix dropping wards around the country?” Penelope asked. “Because if so, they are terrorists. Reveal _cannot_ proceed without a Deal—”

“A Deal itsn’t likely, with Shacklebolt in charge,” said Baggot.

“The Order burned to ash!” shouted Savage. “When the Dark Lord fell!”

“They say it’s risen,” said Spragg. “And maybe it’s better if we stop seeking compromise. Maybe it’s better if we drop the wards without a Deal. Otherwise, we’ll just be arguing forever the merits of—”

This was the part of the meeting in which Penelope whirled on various faculty, her eyes flashing, demanding, “Are you _insane_? No-Deal Reveal would result in mass _chaos_ , not to mention the death of thousands of innocent non-mags. Do you remember the war?”

“I remember the Ministry.” Spragg sneered. “Half under Imperius, half complicit, bending to the world of a Dark Lord.”

“The Dark Lord was defeated!” Savage thumped the table. Now was the part of the meeting where she began to thump the table incessantly, like punctuation. “And at what cost? The cost of Severus Snape.” Thump. “The cost of Remus Lupin.” Thump. “The cost of Albus Dumble—”

“Dumbledore was a manipulative moderate who _never_ had the lives of innocent non-mags in mind.” Spragg’s voice was even more calm.

“Albus Dumbledore!” Savage roared, thumping the table with both hands flat on the table.

Now was the part of the meeting when Harry left. 

Even pushing open the door was a breath of fresh air, the cool airy atmosphere of the long stone hallway instead of that hot room, packed with too many hot voices. _Outside there is more oxygen._ Harry walked down the corridor because he knew it, not because he could see it or feel it or hear his own footsteps. His feet knew where to take him, out the carved oak door, into the stone paths of the cloisters. Off of the stone path into the grass, across the green to the Timothy Tree, the familiar stone bench, shaded by leaves lit bright green by streaming sun. _Notice where you are._

Harry closed his eyes. Overhead, the leaves barely rustled. Instead, he could hear those still, summer sounds: a buzzing insect. The twitch of a twig as another insect passed over it. The still, hot weight of sun, which, if he listened closely enough, beat upon him in the rhythm of his own heart. Now for scent: grass. Bark. Heat, the sun-baked stones. More sounds, now: thrashing through the grass. Harry opened his eyes.

“Ugh,” Penelope said, flinging herself onto the bench next to him. “You are so _lucky_ you can just walk out of those meetings.”

Harry took a breath, released it.

“I’m sorry I get so het up,” Penelope went on. “I just get so angry, you know?”

_I know; it’s okay_ Harry wanted to say, except he didn’t want to say it. _Sometimes being polite is not as important as setting boundaries,_ Kavika would say. “Thanks,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his fist, “for your apology. I do find it stressful.”

“I know, right? Ughhh.” Penelope released another big sigh. “It’s _Pillwickle_ and Flint and those bastards on the Council. Do you know Flint’s son was one of those NDEs at that meeting Malfoy busted? And his mum’s still on the Council?”

Of course Harry knew, but he didn’t really see the point in reminding Penelope of it.

“Livid,” said Penelope. “Outraged. Now, if terrorists were offing _them_ instead of dropping wards—do you really think there’s a new Order of the Phoenix?”

_Wizards have a trick not afforded to non-mags, when faced with an uncomfortable conversation,_ Kavika had once told him. _When you feel forced to discuss something you don’t want to, you can quite literally disappear._ The wards around the Academy, of course, made it impossible. Harry wouldn’t do that to Penelope anyway.

The problem was, Teddy kept disappearing, and not just to non-mag concerts with Malfoy. Harry didn’t know where Teddy wasn’t going, and he couldn’t conscience following his own godson. If there were people calling themselves Order of the Phoenix, and they were responsible for the ward-drops—Teddy wouldn’t join them. Would he?

“If there is, they’re not doing a lick of good,” Penelope was saying. “They could at least help Shacklebolt rally the Council. You know Shacklebolt personally, don’t you? Do you really think he will resign?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, mostly because he hoped it meant Penelope wouldn’t continue to ask questions about the Order.

“Ah, well.” Penelope heaved another great big sigh. “Start of another year, I suppose. It’s a shame Malfoy has to retake his courses. He really excelled in mine, actually, the second time through. Hey.” Penelope turned to him, as though seeing him for the first time. “Did you know he was gay?”

While there was nothing Harry wanted to talk about less than Draco Malfoy’s sexuality, he merely said, “No.”

“Oh.” A frown creased Penelope’s small brow in her sharp little face. “But you’re gay too, aren’t you?”

“Bi.”

“Right! Sorry.” Mortification and contrition passed in quick succession, only to fade just as quickly into thoughtfulness. “Shame about his face, innit? He could almost be good-looking.”

_Not really_ , Harry wanted to say. Why was everyone obsessed with Malfoy? But Harry knew the answer. _There are, like, twelve of us,_ Ron had said once. In the middle of an intense political battle that would change the course of the entire magical world, not to mention the non-mag one, it was no wonder that everyone should become obsessed with what was happening with some rich pure-blood boy. Old Blood was the closest thing Wizarding Britain had to royalty, and who didn’t want to watch royalty get disowned and thrown from the palace because of where they happened to place their cock?

“Just another thing gone wrong this millennium.” Penelope shook her head. “It has to start getting better sometime, doesn’t it?”

_Not necessarily_ , Harry thought, but instead he Summoned a chocolate and gave it to Penelope, as Malfoy had once done for him.

“Thanks,” Penelope said.

They ate their chocolates in silence.

*

“Glad you’re back,” Harry said, when Kavika opened her door to him shortly after the start of term.

“Harry.” Kavika’s voice was particularly warm, her large eyes almost tender. “It’s nice to see you.”

For a moment, Harry almost thought she might hug him, but instead she turned to lead him down the hall, leaving him to close the door as usual. “How is Laila?” Harry asked as he followed her down the softly lit corridor. 

“About the same,” Kavika said, holding the door to her office open.

Harry entered, something settling inside him as he took in the familiar surroundings: the overstuffed chair, Kavika’s table with her coffee instruments, the window with its tree. “I’m sorry,” Harry said, turning back to Kavika. “Is there anything I can do?”

Though Kavika looked touched, she said only, “You may sit, Harry. I will make the coffee.”

Kavika had been in Beirut almost the whole summer, as she had most of the spring, only returning briefly shortly after graduation for one session before returning to her daughter, Nadia. Laila, Kavika’s granddaughter, was having developmental difficulties, Kavika had told him after graduation. Nadia had been seeking out her mother for both physical and moral support, and as a result, Harry had been seeing Kavika less often. She had called him today for a special session—not one of their usual ones, she had said, as she had something about his treatment she wished to discuss.

Still, they almost always made chit-chat at the beginnings of sessions, so, while Kavika made the coffee, Harry sat and asked after Nadia. They talked about the wizard doctors, Kavika’s son-in-law, and porting to Beirut. “It’s got to be brutal, jumping between time zones,” Harry said.

“It takes its toll. Here you are, Harry.” Turning from the side table, Kavika brought two cups, handing one to Harry and keeping on for herself. Seating herself opposite Harry, she was silent for a moment, allowing them both to take a sip.

Now was usually the time when Kavika returned the favour of small talk, asking Harry about his life—simple questions: how are you, how are things going, tell me about Academy. Harry used to let this go on for a while, giving minimal answers, waiting to see where she would press, but she hadn’t, not really. Instead, she had waited for him to open, allowing him to get used to her, and then when he was ready, allowing him to talk about what he had wanted to talk about. Sometimes Harry still didn’t know what he wanted to talk about, really; he just knew he always felt better once he left.

Today, however, wasn’t a normal session, and he wasn’t sure what to expect. In a normal session, he would’ve probably talked about Orientation. It was always a bit rough, with the trainees’ questions—though this year, for the third time, Malfoy had been there. He’d left coffee on Harry’s desk before the day had started, and he had been wearing what appeared to be a woman’s blouse. This had managed to distract most of the trainees rather thoroughly, much to Harry’s convenience, and instead of trainees asking Harry whether he had PTSD and was a murderer, they wanted to know from Malfoy what it was like to be a gay disowned spy whose father owned a quarter of Diagon. 

Malfoy had seemed to revel in all the attention, allowing Harry to escape mostly forgot, except by Nyala Zabini, whom Harry didn’t mind. He had known her previously as Icarus, and she was Teddy’s best friend. “Teddy told me there’s hand-to-hand? In Combat?” she had asked, while Malfoy had regaled the rest of the trainees with vivid tales of causing non-mag men to faint dead away in his arms.

“Yes,” Harry had told her. “In case you get disarmed. They didn’t used to teach it. I found it useful.”

“Right.” Nyala gave a jerky nod, then smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. 

Nyala did not look so very different than when she had been Icarus, but she wore her hair longer now, and was taking some potions that made other changes. When Harry spoke, his voice was quiet, so the others wouldn’t hear. “Before we start hand to hand, we always have a discussion about boundaries. A sparring partner would never touch you without warning or permission.”

Nyala lifted her head. “I’m not afraid. I can fight pretty well.”

“Good,” Harry had said. “Can’t wait to see it.” By the time he had turned back to the other trainees, they had already moved away from him, following Malfoy down the corridor like a bunch of enchanted children to the tune of a Pied Piper.

“We’re onto Baggot next,” Malfoy was saying. “My _favorite_ instructor.”

“Is it true he failed you?” asked one of the new trainees.

“Hm,” Malfoy had said, pretending to think about it. “It’s true he failed to pass me. His loss. Your gain. The loss of the Auror Force and the whole magical world, really, but still. Your gain.”

It was actually the best Orientation Harry had had at the Academy—even better than his own, when he was a trainee, as that had been shortly after his defeat of Voldemort and everyone except Ron had been a bit scared of him. Harry was actually thinking that, in a normal session, he would prefer to talk about Teddy, who sometimes left Rombe Pickle without telling Andromeda where he was going. Andromeda did not seem particularly concerned about these disappearances. 

“He’s growing up! Spreading his wings! Leaving the nest!” she had told Harry, when Harry had come for a Sunday brunch and she hadn’t been able to say where Teddy was.

_But what if he’s somewhere with Malfoy,_ Harry had wanted to ask, but that made it sound like Teddy and Malfoy were doing something illicit, which was hardly fair to either of them. Teddy had few enough father figures as it was; no wonder it meant a lot to him that he had an older cousin who wanted to take him to music concerts and non-mag films. Harry wasn’t the only older male friend Teddy could have—though that didn’t make Harry any less worried that somehow Malfoy would let him down.

_And what if Teddy isn’t with Malfoy at all and has become a terrorist,_ Harry also hadn’t said, because he didn’t even want to think of that yet. Though maybe he could tell Kavika. He could probably tell Kavika. She would probably have something very reasonable to say.

Harry didn’t tell Kavika.

Instead, Kavika said, “Now is normally when I would ask you how you are, Harry,” she said, “only I’m not going to.”

“Right.” Harry passed his thumb over the scar on the back of his other hand. “You said you wanted to discuss my treatment.”

“Yes.” Kavika’s eyes crinkled in inexplicable sympathy. “It will continue, Harry. Only, not by me.”

Harry couldn’t hear. He could hear, but no one was saying anything. He couldn’t see, but he could. The light was entering his eyes and giving him the pictures. He couldn’t _understand_ ; that was what was happening.

Kavika’s voice was the gentlest thing, in all its rough casing. “When we began, we said it would be temporary.”

Harry still couldn’t understand. He couldn’t breathe.

“Let’s sit with this a while.” Kavika’s accent was beautiful. The way she said _while_ felt like a silk cord slipping slowly through loose fingers, threading slowly down in one long stream to curl upon the floor. The cord had once connected them, but was broken now, not for a _while_. Forever.

A _while_ sat between them, something poison between them; Harry didn’t want to look.

_She’s right,_ pushed a little voice in Harry’s mind. _She always said—_ he couldn’t. He couldn’t think. Not just now. Not yet. He couldn’t look between them, at her. Not yet. Breathe, he told himself. In through the nose; out through the—“But I can’t,” he began, then stopped. He hadn’t meant to speak.

“Take your time,” said Kavika. “I’m here.”

_But you won’t be!_ he wanted to shout, but she would. She wasn’t dying. She had always said she would come out of retirement to treat him, and then—and then—“What am I meant to do?”

“We already reviewed the Mind Healers in the UK, early on,” said Kavika.

_Right, and none of them are good enough!_

“And we agreed they weren’t what you needed,” Kavika went on. “However, two more have come into practice since then, and I think it would be worthwhile to try either one. Additionally, I have two friends abroad. I can loan you their portkeys until you decide on who will treat you—”

_I don’t want to go abroad!_

“—but before we discuss options in more detail, I’d like to take some more time with this.”

_More time with this_ fell into a heap along with _while_ in between them, as though time could ever fix what was happening.

_Time is the only thing that can fix what’s happening_ , went Harry’s brain, and he breathed again. In through the nose; you should feel your belly expand; out through the mouth; it should deflate—two, three four. In through the nose, two three four, out through the mouth, two three four. In through the nose—out. Okay. “Why?” Harry asked, finally dull now, instead of shocked.

“I’m sorry, Harry.” Soft warm light glowed on Kavika’s face, and Harry realized he loved her. He loved her. “Family obligations. Not only my daughter and her child, but my husband. And then, I should be honest—ambition. Things are not going well with the Deal.”

“You’re going to run for office?” Harry said, startled out of misery into temporary curiosity.

“Not that kind of ambition. There are things happening, Harry, with my husband’s work, that I can’t explain. Soon I will be able to, but the pieces are in motion now. Kingsley and I share similar causes. We always have.”

Harry thought about this, staring at a spot between them on the floor. It was empty after all. He looked up. “Close to when I started, you had me make a list,” he said, “of everyone I could go to in a time of need. You said it was different than seeing a therapist, that I had to remember they were friends.”

“I don’t mean that you should stop therapy,” Kavika said quickly. “Not by any means. If I had my way, everyone would have a therapist. I only said I would be yours until you climbed out of darkness, Harry. Now you are standing in the light.”

“Yeah.” Harry rubbed the back of his hand. “What I meant was—can I add you to the list? Of friends, I mean.”

“Harry.” Kavika’s smile lit her up inside. “It would be my genuine honour.”

*

The next day, Kingsley Shacklebolt, unable to gain agreement on the Deal, faced a vote of no confidence from the Wizard Council. He lost the vote fifteen to thirteen, with one member abstaining.

That evening, Kingsley resigned as Minister of Magic.

The day after that, Cornelius Fudge stated that he would stand in the forthcoming election.

*

September passed in a blaze of bright blue skies full of leaf stars, bursting into supernovae of yellow, red, and orange. Harry’s new therapist was an American woman named Alexis Milligan, who had moved to the UK to be with her husband three years prior. A tall, thin woman with blond hair and brown eyes, Doctor Milligan seemed to Harry very American, with her very large earrings and very large voice.

“And how are we?” she said brightly as Harry sat down in a very sleek chair in front of a very sleek desk, where Doctor Milligan was tapping her wand over again at a long paper on her desk.

“Fine,” said Harry, looking at the paper, then back up at Milligan. “How are you?”

“So good.” Thumping down her wand, she folded her hands and pinned Harry with a wide smile.

Harry glanced down at the paper again. “Were those colour spells?”

“Well, aren’t you keen! Of course, you are, hero of wizarding Britain.” Milligan seemed to think it rather sweet that Harry was hero of wizarding Britain. “I was colour-coding my calendar.”

“Organized,” Harry said, just to make conversation.

“A little aesthetic pleasure always helps with punctuality. Well, Harry! What can I help you with today?” 

“Er. I don’t know if ‘help’ is the right . . .” Catching himself rubbing the back of his hand, Harry made himself stop. He _was_ here for help, wasn’t he? _Try to be honest with yourself, if no one else_ , Kavika had once said. Harry thought about it. “We could talk about my boyfriend?”

“Vinicius Souza.”

“You know him?” Harry asked, surprised.

“No, no. I know of him, just as I know about you. You should know, Harry, I saw about half the population of MACUSA on a regular basis when I lived in the US, especially under the current administration.” Milligan sounded as though she didn’t particularly approve of the current administration. “I didn’t treat Vinicius—obviously, I wouldn’t tell you if I had. But I thought you should be aware that the wizarding world isn’t all that large, even in the US.”

“I wasn’t under the apprehension that it was.”

“Aren’t you clever?” Milligan flashed him a smile. “Now, what did you want to say about Vinicius?”

“I didn’t have a particular problem. I just thought we could talk about him.”

“That’s perfect.” Milligan kept her smile, her eyes large and bright. “So, talk.”

“Er.” Looking around the room for inspiration, Harry remembered Kavika’s window with its tree, her tapestries, her side table with coffee. Nothing was in this office other than chrome, black paint, and white leather. When Harry started thinking longingly of Kavika’s Magibricks, he realized he was again rubbing the back of his hand. “I’m not sure,” Harry said finally. “We’re fine. I like him.”

“That seems a little lacklustre.”

“What?” Startled, Harry stopped rubbing his hand. 

“You like him, but you don’t love him.” Milligan sounded as though she had heard this before, but not in a bad way. Her tone was very compassionate. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“Not . . . particularly,” Harry said. “I’m okay, not loving him. It’s . . . comfortable.”

“Too comfortable?” said Milligan. “Are things getting boring?”

“No.” Harry knew he wasn’t being clear. _Identify the conversation you want to have._ “I want,” Harry began, then started again. “I want it to be okay. That it’s comfortable. That I don’t need—more, that he doesn’t need more, that it’s not . . .” Harry ground his teeth. “It’s not painful. I’ve been in other relationships—they were painful. I fell in love before I knew what I was doing, before we really knew each other, or we grew up and . . . I just want it to be okay. That we’re like this.”

“So, it’s more a friends-with-benefits sort of thing.” Milligan was nodding. “That’s really okay, Harry. Lots of people have that sort of relationship. It’s perfectly adult.”

“It’s not friends-with-benefits,” Harry said. “I mean, it’s serious. It’s just not . . . it’s serious in that we’ve talked about living together, that kind of thing. It’s just not . . . I don’t think about him all the time.

“He’s not the one.”

“No,” Harry said. “I mean, I don’t believe in that.”

“You don’t believe in true love?”

“No,” Harry said again, his impatience growing. “I mean, I don’t think there’s just one person out there that can—I loved Ginny. She was—everything to me, and I was to her, but—but it was fucked up. I mean, what if she’s ‘the one?’ What would be the point?”

“I see.” Milligan nodded, her tone again understanding, and Harry realized his voice had got a little loud. 

He took a breath, then exhaled. He didn’t particularly want to notice his surroundings, but he did anyway; at least the calendar on Milligan’s desk had colours. There was an absence of smell, the office obviously swept with cleaning spells regularly, but with concentration, Harry could eventually smell Milligan’s perfume, a light apple scent.

“Do you regret not making it work with Ginevra Weasley?” Milligan finally asked.

“No. That’s not what I’m saying at all.” Realizing he had lost all the calm he had just gathered, Harry abruptly stopped.

Milligan waited, her brows knit in sympathy. “Do you want to tell me more?”

_Not particularly!_ But Harry took a breath, then another. He shouldn’t blame her for not being Kavika; it was not fair. “I just meant,” he said, his voice softer, “that with Ginny, there was an issue of timing. With Andre, there was an issue of . . . if I hadn’t been famous, it might have been easier for him. Me being famous is a part of who I am, so I understand that if he couldn’t accept that, he couldn’t accept me. Okay. But I don’t particularly _like_ that aspect of who I am. I didn’t choose it, so it didn’t feel like—it didn’t feel like that didn’t make him ‘the one.’”

Harry stopped, waiting for Milligan to say something, but instead she said, “Mm-hm,” soothingly, waiting for him to go on. She must sense his impatience, and Harry was fucking this up. He hadn’t meant to fuck it up, but he was. “And Ron and Hermione,” Harry ploughed on. “They are two, but in some ways they’re ‘the one’ for me. No one will ever be as important as they are to me. And then there’s Teddy. There can be someone that I love,” Harry went on. “But I don’t believe there’s just one person out there, waiting.”

“You don’t believe in soulmates,” Milligan said.

“Voldemort put part of his soul in me,” Harry said. “That’s as real a soulmate as you can ever get.”

Milligan’s lips parted, her expression so, so understanding. “You believe he corrupted you?”

“What? No. Why would—it happened when I was a baby. It’s not my fault.”

“I’m sorry. I misunderstood.” Milligan’s eyes were rather large. “I thought you meant you felt you couldn’t have a soulmate because of what he had done to you.”

“No,” Harry said. “I meant—I meant that I don’t _want_ someone tied to me. Not in that way. I want someone who is their own person, who doesn’t need me to—to save them, or exist for them, or be their everything. I want someone who exists for themself, and who loves me . . . just for being me.”

Harry waited, wanting to hear whether this thought made sense, wanting to hear that it was comprehensible, valid in some way, excusable, realistic, something. Milligan waited too. At last she said, “So, is Vinicius that person?”

Something crushed down on Harry’s chest. _You are not that person,_ is all he wanted to say, but of course that was a non sequitur. They were not talking about whether Milligan was the ideal therapist. Were they? “I don’t know,” Harry said at last. “I’m not—it doesn’t worry me. In particular.”

Silence fell over the room like a door shutting between them, invisible and impenetrable. Milligan swallowed. “Maybe you can tell me more about Vinicius,” she said finally. “That way, we can drill down to what you really want to say about him.”

Harry didn’t want to say anything about Vinicius, not anymore. Instead, he said, “Okay.”

*

“I feel like I was an arse,” Harry told Hermione later.

“You weren’t an arse,” Hermione told him. They were having tea in her sitting room; the kids were in bed, and Ron was out late on a case. “Some people just don’t work for us. We need to find the ones that do.”

“I found the person that worked for me,” Harry said. “I don’t fancy trying it all again.”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said, “but _I_ found the person that worked for you. If I remember correctly, you were too busy saying no one would work for you to find someone who worked for you.”

Harry felt his mouth twist into a smile. “You like to rub it in, don’t you?”

“I like to take credit I’m due.”

“You can have it all.”

“Thanks.” Hermione smirked. “Now, you’re going to keep looking, aren’t you?”

Harry played with his teacup. “You don’t think I need to give her another chance?”

“No.”

“That was decisive.”

“Harry, therapists are not your next-door-neighbour. You don’t have to suffer through anyone who doesn’t work for you; you can pick the one you like. Does it help to get to know someone and allow yourself to open up? Of course. But if someone instantly rubs you the wrong way, you have the privilege and the power to walk away.”

Harry raised his brow sceptically. “A lot of people rub me the wrong way.”

Hermione shrugged. “So, you’re hard to please. Have you met me?”

Smiling ruefully, Harry played with his cup some more. “It’s nice, getting to choose. But I have to admit it would also be nice to have a therapist just now, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I can’t understand what you mean. The whole world’s going perfectly. Reveal’s in the toilet; we’ve lost Shacklebolt, and the Council might appoint a criminal of war. What’s not to love?”

“They can’t really . . .” Harry grimaced. “They’re not going to. Are they?”

Hermione shook her head, her cloud of brown hair falling a little bit into her face. She brushed it back. “Fudge has deep pockets, and deeper influence. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the next Minister.”

“We fought a war over this.”

“It’s been twenty years.” Hermione’s voice was grim. “I’ll bet the wizarding world is due for another.”

*

The Higgledy Piggledy was a magical pub in Cambridge, a little ways away from the Academy. The pub drew trainees, instructors, and alumni alike with its homebrew lagers, excellent menu, and superb speakers, which were synced to the wireless. This made it a popular venue for magical world events: the big Quidditch matches mainly; the Wizarding World Cup certainly; but also, the trials. When Harry was still a trainee, his fellow trainees, instructors, and Aurors had gathered by the pub wireless to hear sentences for war criminals. 

Tonight saw a similar crowd: Penelope, Gareth, Savage, Penelope’s husband, Savage’s wife—still on the Force—a few of her Auror friends, Teddy, Nyala, a few other Level Ones and Twos. Baggot and Povey were there, not necessarily sitting with anyone. Harry sat with Teddy and Nyala, glad that on such an eventful night, Teddy had asked to spend it with him, rather than disappearing to “hang about with friends,” as he kept saying. 

If Teddy hadn’t asked, Harry probably would have spent the night alone, despite the significance of the occasion. Hermione was in session for the vote, and Ron was in audience as one of the few special guests allowed. Vinicius was at the Leaky with most of the rest of the Force, though obviously, a few of the Aurors had come to the Higgledy Piggledy.

The final Council vote was tonight. Hermione’s bid for appointment as Minister had already failed to reach majority. Fudge’s bid, in a shocking turn of events, had succeeded. All that remained between the people and a Fudge Ministry was Proudfoot, a staunch moderate with very few political opinions other than neither side was right, and Reveal should happen because witches and wizards had called for it, but also maybe it could be stalled forever, that sort of thing. However, if he achieved majority tonight, Proudfoot and Fudge would be in a runoff, with the Wizengamot casting the final vote, and hope would remain. If he failed, Fudge would be the de facto Council appointment for Minister, at least until the general election in a year and a half. It didn’t work like anything Harry could remember about non-mag Parliament, but then again, nothing about the Ministry did.

Though the wireless was on, the results of the Council vote had not yet been announced, and the conversation in the pub ran mostly political. Harry had a lot to say about politics but kept mostly quiet, instead nursing his lager and listening to everyone else talk. Teddy and Nyala mostly listened as well, which was generally their wont. The evening wasn’t shaping up so bad, and Harry was feeling hopeful about Proudfoot, until the door to the pub burst open, letting in the sharp night and a tall man with a shock of blond hair.

The man was Malfoy, of course. In a worn, over-sized jumper, with a ten galleon grin, a gorgeous woman on his arm, and a veritable little army of young people spilling into the pub behind him, he wasn’t immediately recognizable. “Party’s started,” Malfoy announced to the entire pub. Most of the pub cheered.

Fairchild and Mark were part of the little army. Harry also recognized Bennet, Achar, Fuentes, Adebayo, and Wan, who had graduated last year. Fuentes was working the Mysteries, but the rest had become Aurors, which perhaps explained the cheering from the Aurors and instructors in the room. A few more Level Twos and another Level One streamed in, but Harry didn’t recognize the woman on Malfoy’s arm, who was dressed in the height of non-mag fashion and had a shaved head. 

Malfoy, the woman, and the army all decided, en masse, to swarm the table Harry sat at with Teddy and Nyala. “You made it,” Teddy said. He hadn’t cheered, but his mouth had ticked up when Malfoy had shown up at the door. From Teddy, this was practically a bear hug.

Trainees squished onto the booth beside Harry. Nyala and Teddy, who had been in chairs across from Harry, were shuffled down into additional chairs squeezed directly next to Harry, and more chairs were brought for Malfoy, the bald woman, Bennet, and Fuentes, all crowding around across the table. “Sorry to be late,” Malfoy said, amidst half a dozen greetings and inquiries from the former trainees, who were delighted to find Harry there. Swooping in for some of Teddy’s chips, Malfoy didn’t seem to care. They hadn’t talked alone together since a few nights before Malfoy’s infiltration of Windermere, and they’d only talked in classes as Harry would to any other trainee.

“I had to gather reinforcements,” Malfoy was saying.

“You need them,” said Teddy. “If there’s to be a party.”

“If there’s to be a revolution,” said the woman with the shaved head, who had also nabbed one of Teddy’s chips, and was waving it emphatically.

“What do you think about revolution, Instructor Potter?” Suddenly, Malfoy swung to face Harry.

Malfoy’s eyes were lined in black. _Make-up_ , went Harry’s brain, and he brushed the back of his hand with his fingertips. The pub was crowded, and loud. “Maybe revolution could wait to see whether Proudfoot gets a plurality,” Harry said.

“What?” said the girl with the shaved head. The pub was too loud; she hadn’t heard.

Malfoy turned to her, smiling at her, then put his lips straight against her ear to repeat what Harry had said. This didn’t make him look very gay.

“Proudfoot needs a revolution too!” the bald girl told Harry, when Malfoy was quite finished. Her voice was raised to be heard over the crowd, but when she went on, Harry still couldn’t hear her.

Nyala started to say something to the bald woman in reply, but Harry couldn’t hear that either.

“—practical option for eradicating a purist culture,” Nyala finished saying, then paused, looking about. While Harry could still hear the people at the table, the background noise of the pub had dropped to a dull roar. “I can hear myself think.”

“Sound bubble,” said Malfoy, showing off his wand before slipping it in the sleeve of his jumper.

“I can’t hear the wireless,” Bennet complained.

“Then don’t be in our bubble.” Malfoy ate another chip. “Have you had anything to eat, Instructor Potter?”

“I was having chips,” Harry said, “but someone stole them.”

“Finders keepers. I take your point, Nyala,” Malfoy said, turning back to her, “but what do you recommend we do if Proudfoot doesn’t pull through?”

“Reveal is only safe with a Deal,” Nyala said.

“Agreed.” Malfoy ate another chip. “What if there’s not a Deal?”

Fairchild believed that first non-magborn witches and wizards should come out to their non-mag families and friends, which would ease the way for the broader revelation of the Wizarding World. Wan argued this would put non-magborn witches and wizards at risk—non-mags had armies, weapons, and reasons to fear magic. Achar argued that Reveal should begin with dropping wards in a single small wizarding town, such as Hogsmeade, again allowing a smaller reveal before wider exposure. The bald woman pointed out that the problem was the same: Hogsmeade would be vulnerable to non-mags who feared magic.

Adebayo made some reply, and Harry could feel him to his left, Teddy in a chair to his right, either side pressing in on him. Even if Harry asked Teddy to move his chair so Harry could get out, there was the pile of cloaks to be got through—the booth had a hook, but the number of cloaks had proven too much for it, and they had all fallen to the floor. People kept passing, so even if Harry got out past the cloaks, people would bump into him, and then he would be outside of the sound bubble; everything was too—

A wave of fresh air brushed Harry’s face, and suddenly Harry could feel space on either side of him. When he looked to his left, Adebayo was still sitting there. He hadn’t moved, and yet now there was an inch between them in the booth. He was still talking, as though he hadn’t even noticed. The fresh air puffed over Harry again, as though through an open door or window, and Harry looked up to find it.

Malfoy’s grey eyes looked straight into him. Then, slipping his wand into his sleeve, Malfoy turned away. “It’s not only non-mags who stand to be vulnerable in a partial Reveal,” he said. “If a gun is a deadly weapon some non-mags own, a wand is a deadly weapon children receive for their eleventh birthday.”

The fresh air was like a light breeze that had decided to be friends with Harry, touching his cheeks, too hot in the pub; stroking the back of his neck, sweaty under hair and his too-warm collar. When Harry looked to the right, the whole mass of cloaks had folded themselves neatly into a stack at the foot of the booth, tucked under Teddy’s chair.

“Non-magborns coming out to their families and dropping the wards in a single wizarding village were already proposed in the Deal,” Teddy was saying. “Why is it any different now?”

“If the Wizarding World had the will,” Fairchild was saying, “we could find the way.”

“The way is revolution,” said the bald woman.

“Astoria always wants a revolution. Prepare your ears; here’s the food.” Malfoy tapped his wand, and the sound bubble broke, admitting the voice of a bloke who was standing with the tray.

The bloke began handing out plates to Malfoy’s little army, who had apparently ordered food sometime between their dramatic entrance and now, a time during which Harry had also failed to realize that the gorgeous bald woman was Astoria. Of course she was, with her fine, delicate features, her beautifully arched brows, her flashing green eyes. The haircut was what had thrown Harry off—but no, that obviously wasn’t the only thing. It was the way Malfoy was sat so close to her, the way she unconsciously touched him, the way he smiled at her. Harry had only assumed she would be devastated: a pure-blood daughter whose engagement had been dissolved by her own father upon learning her own fiancé was not only a blood traitor, but worse yet, gay. 

The waiter put plates down around the table, the smell making Harry realize he was hungry, though he wasn’t sure he could eat such hot, heavy food in such a close atmosphere. “Icebox lily cucumber sandwich and liverwort lemonade?” the waiter asked, now holding only a plate and a glass, with the big tray under his arm.

“Instructor Potter,” said Malfoy. “The specky one with the hair.”

The icebox lily cucumber sandwich, whatever that was, was sat down in front of Harry, and when he looked up from it, Malfoy’s silver eyes were on his. Then he turned away.

“Thank you,” Malfoy told the waiter. The bubble closed, and Malfoy turned back to the table at large. “Have we no hope for Proudfoot, then?”

Bennet argued Proudfoot had other solutions—a graduated unObliviate, so non-mags would slowly remember pieces of the Wizarding World they had already seen. Astoria said Proudfoot was a spineless worm who would never get them a Deal, and now they were back to the beginning, with some of the table saying change needed to come about through the Ministry, and others saying that change needed to happen in the streets.

Harry ate his sandwich, which was cool and light and good, and drank his liverwort lemonade, which was amazing. The conversation went on for a while, in circles and inroads and then back out and over crossroads, until the crowd and heat and subdued noise outside the bubble became too much. “I’ll be back in a bit,” Harry told Teddy in an undertone.

Standing, Harry glanced at Malfoy, just because he couldn’t help it, but Malfoy was deep in a conversation with Nyala and Fairchild. Still, somehow not a single person brushed Harry as he headed for the door.

Outside, Harry loosened his collar, letting in the night air. Opening his senses as well, he took in the sights, the smells, the sounds. Insects made their quiet rustling sounds, and non-mag car horns honked in the distance. The pub, which should have been a dull roar behind him, was almost dead silent.

“Finite incantatem,” Harry said, pointing at himself, and then he could hear it: the buzz of the wireless, the babble of voices rising and falling, the click of dishware and glasses. Closing his eyes, Harry let it wash over him, a part of it and also outside of it, like Luna had said.

For a while, Harry catalogued each of the sounds, listening for the difference between cutlery and glassware, between individual voices. Teddy, Nyala, and Malfoy all spoke too quietly to be heard. Sometimes Harry thought he heard Astoria. She was loud. When Harry was alone like this, he longed for Ron and Hermione. Reaching up, Harry unbuttoned another button, so he could lay his palm over the locket without pulling it away from his chest. 

If Proudfoot lost, Fudge would win. The Deal would be doomed, and Harry could not go to Kavika for help. The pub door opened and closed behind him, and Harry turned around. 

Malfoy stopped, then came forward, standing on the edge of the kerb beside Harry. “Needed a breath of fresh air.” His eyes flicked down Harry’s throat, to the hand clasped around the locket against his chest, then quickly looked away.

“Thank you,” Harry added. “For the sandwich.”

Shoving his fists in his pockets, Malfoy looked off down the street. He had on denims, which was new and different as the makeup. “Sandwich here and there is a small repayment. You saved my life several times, if I recall.”

_It’s more than a sandwich here and there,_ Harry wanted to say, but he didn’t. He’d never asked for any of it. 

“World’s gone to shit, hasn’t it.” It wasn’t really a question, and Malfoy still was steadfastly not looking at him. “Did you ever think we would come to this? The fact that we’re even discussing Fudge as Minister of Magic makes me—well. It makes me think I know how you must have felt fifth year, when you said the Dark Lord was back, and no one would fucking take it seriously.”

Malfoy hadn’t taken it seriously. He’d laughed at Cedric Diggory’s death. “I do these exercises,” Harry said. 

Malfoy turned back to him, a brow raised. “Exercises?”

“For stress,” Harry said.

If Malfoy’s face had been a house with a door and a window open, it looked now as though another window was opening. “Tell me about them.”

“You can do them,” Harry said. “Look about. What do you see?”

“You.”

“I meant, besides me.”

Malfoy’s eyes darted to Harry’s throat again. His own throat bobbed, but then he looked about. “The pub. The street. That tree.”

“What else?” Harry said. “What do you see that you wouldn’t see if you weren’t looking?”

“I . . .” Malfoy’s head tipped back, giving him a view of the sky. “Capricorn. Pegasus. Pisces.”

“How about down here?”

Looking down again, Malfoy gestured. “That stain on the pavement. Grass growing between the pavement and the kerb. There are leaves near the door.”

“Good. And what do you smell?”

“Sweat,” Malfoy said, and then his cheeks went pink. He darted a guilty glance at Harry, then looked away. Wetting his lips, he closed his eyes. His brow knit as he began to speak again. “Grease—from the pub, lager. Petrol, from the—automobiles. Leaves. Autumnal decay.”

Only a Malfoy would say _autumnal decay_. “What do you hear?”

The expression of concentration tightened. “Oh.” The expression released, and Malfoy opened his eyes. “That’s why you took off the sound bubble.” All the doors and windows in the house of Malfoy’s face were open now, sympathetic. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” It was really fine, and Harry felt more relaxed than he had all evening. This was probably why he kept talking, as though Malfoy were some kind of friendly acquaintance. Maybe he was, by now. “So, you and Astoria are . . . friends?”

“More. Allies.”

“Oh. Is she . . . do you mean she’s gay as well?”

“No. I mean she’s a good soul. With a good heart. One of the best people I’ve ever known.” Malfoy rocked his heels thoughtfully on the kerb, toes hanging over the edge, then decided to add something else. “She challenges me.”

“How?”

“Getting personal, are we, Potter?” Malfoy quipped.

“I’m trying to make a conversation.” Harry’s voice was gentle.

There was a pause. “Sorry.” Malfoy truly did sound sorry. Looking down the street, he rocked on his heels again, as though feeling the weight of himself. “She challenges me to be who I am,” he said at last, turning to face Harry so directly that Harry felt confronted. “She wants everyone to look inside themselves and find the person that they are there, and then reject anyone who would hold you back from being your most authentic self.”

Malfoy’s eyes were nailing Harry to the spot, making him want to protest, _I’m not holding you back!_ , but of course, Malfoy hadn’t said that.

“I’m not the person that I was.” Malfoy’s voice felt sudden. “I’m not the person my mum and dad raised me to be.”

Malfoy hadn’t been talking about Harry holding him back. Not at all. “No,” Harry agreed. “You’re not.”

Malfoy’s cheeks went pink again, and his chest began to rise and fall at a faster pace. “Do you think that you could—”

He never finished, cutting himself off to turn toward the pub, which had grown silent, except for the buzz of the wireless. “—it up,” came a voice from inside, and the volume increased. Slipping out his wand, Malfoy cast a spell, and the voice on the wireless suddenly become audible outside on the pavement.

“—in the final tally,” Lee Jordan’s voice was saying, “meaning Archimedes Proudfoot’s bid for Wizard Council appointment has failed, leaving Cornelius Oswald Fudge’s appointment in good standing without an opponent. Fudge will formally take office Monday, October 9—”

_It will continue, Harry_ , Kavika had said. _Only, not with me._

Once a war was won, it should stay won. Once one made progress, one should stay ahead. Instead, twenty years later, the losers were all coming back, the losses were being lost again, and Harry felt like he wasn’t here. He was in a nowhere land, without time, an endless loop in which he couldn’t hear, couldn’t smell, couldn’t see—

Malfoy’s wand slashed across Harry’s vision, ending the amplification spell on the wireless inside the pub. Abruptly focusing, Harry met Malfoy’s eyes.

Malfoy looked as shocked as Harry felt, too pale. Then Harry saw that Malfoy was trembling, the way he had when the Snatchers brought Harry to him and demanded Malfoy identify him. Malfoy’s voice was shaking when he said, “Harry,” and began to reach out.

“It’s fucking bollocks is what it is!” The door to the pub slammed open, and Astoria flowed out like a stream. She caught up Draco’s face, her hand cradling his cheek. “Oh, my darling,” she murmured, seeing his still stricken look. She kissed his other cheek. “We’ll make it through. We’ll survive. We’ll find a way to tear the whole bloody edifice down, you and I. Who gives a fuck for Fudge?” She threw her arms about his neck, and Malfoy wrapped his own arms around her waist, his face turning to press against the side of her neck.

Harry wished that Ron was there, and Hermione. Turning around, he went to go find Teddy.

*


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to icmezzo and seraphcelene, who helped me get this written.
> 
> I could not have written this story without the editing, encouragement, and conviction of siemejay, who tells me my writing is good even when I hate it, and who helps make it better.
> 
> I am sorry I have not been able to answer all the comments of people following along on this story. I still hope to soon, but getting this story done has taken a lot of time and energy, leaving me a little drained fandom-wise. Thank you to all of you who are so thoughtful and patient on every update.

*

The crisp October turned over into a soggy November. The only bright side of Fudge being Minister was that it left his seat on the Board of Regents for the Academy vacant. Since the seat could only be filled by a vote from a plurality of the alumni, however, and the vote took a while to organize, a new board member would likely not be appointed until the end of spring term.

Meanwhile, Harry’s nightmares worsened. He worried about Fudge, about the Board, about Teddy, about Reveal. At least classes at the Academy were uneventful. No one had followed in the blood supremacist footsteps of Travers, and the remaining three members of the board had not yet made a move against Malfoy. Teddy was excelling in Level Two, and Nyala Zabini was making passing marks.

Harry had been concerned for Nyala on the first day of hand-to-hand, mainly because Nyala had said she herself was concerned. However, she’d also said she could handle it, and she hadn’t wanted to make a big deal of it, so Harry had not singled her out on the first day when they had chosen their partners. After Harry had told people to pair up, Malfoy had not hesitated for a second. He’d walked straight across the room to Nyala, holding out his hand. They had been partners ever since, and Nyala had excelled because of it; Malfoy’s instruction was always quiet, infinitely patient, and gentler than Harry had known Malfoy could be.

And cups of coffee still appeared on Harry’s desk intermittently, prepared the way Harry liked it, waiting in a bubble of warmth.

Harry’s next therapist was Doctor Septimus Duggins, a very young bloke fresh out of uni. He had bright, clear eyes in a face so fresh it always seemed just a little flushed, as there was nowhere for blood to hide. Harry had already been to one session with Duggins, but so far, he wasn’t feeling any closer to him than he had to Milligan. Harry suspected himself of being biased against Duggins’s youth, which was why Harry made himself return a second time.

“How are you feeling?” Doctor Duggins asked, as Harry sat down.

“Um.” Harry hesitated. “Not the best, really.”

“That’s okay,” Duggins said earnestly. “It’s all right not to feel your best every once in a while.”

“Is it?” Harry asked. “With Fudge as Minister, I’m sure we should all feel violently reassured.”

Duggins made a sound like a swallowed cough, then straightened his shoulders. “Yes, I can understand feeling some . . . satisfaction with the outcome of the appointment—”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“Oh.” Duggins shoulders deflated. Though he seemed to be hiding it, he sounded relieved, as though he had been gearing himself up for treatment of a Fudge supporter. Had he not heard about Harry’s fifth year? But the bloke was so young. Perhaps he didn’t know Fudge had been Minister before at all—and this was unfair. Wizarding youths knew their history—a lot better than many adults, who had lived through it and so hadn’t seen a need to learn about it. 

“Yes,” Duggins was saying. He hesitated. “I mean—plenty of people are quite upset about the appointment. Understandably so, given that some of Minister Fudge’s policy positions are less than palatable.”

“Less than palatable?”

“Distasteful,” Duggins said quickly, and it sounded a bit as though he thought Harry might not know the word ‘palatable.’

“He’s a blood supremacist,” Harry said simply. “He won’t tell you he is, but that’s because he lies. He lies about everything. He lied to my face about why one of my trainees wasn’t advancing to Level Two last year, and he knows he can get away with it.”

“To your face?” Duggins seemed startled. “Right. Right. I forgot that—you would know him. I mean, of course you know him; you’re—” Duggins looked at him quickly, then away.

The name _Harry Potter_ stood in the room like an elephant. Duggins blushed, and Harry had been here before, people pretending he wasn’t famous, when he was.

“I mean,” Duggins said hastily, “do you want to talk about the trainee?”

“I’m sure you read about the trainee,” Harry said gently.

“Right, of course.” Duggins words only tumbled over themselves a little; Harry was just used to this, so he noticed. “Me reading about it isn’t the same as you talking about it. You brought it up, so I just wondered . . . if it was on your mind.”

“I’m not as interested in Draco Malfoy as _Witch Weekly_ is,” Harry said, his voice still kind.

“Right. All right.” After scribbling something on his pad, Duggins flipped through it, checking various notes. At last, he looked up. He was still flushed, but that was just his complexion, and Harry shouldn’t be holding it against him. “Do you want to talk about Minister Fudge, then?”

“Not particularly,” Harry said, because Minister Fudge and the lack of the Deal were all anyone was talking about these days. Then he realized he had done it as well; he had brought it up. He was being an arse again, and maybe he was torturing this poor therapist for being young and a little bit in awe of Harry Potter, which wasn’t fair. Finding someone not in awe of Harry Potter was rather difficult, and he tended not to hold it against people—particularly young people. The trainees got over it soon enough; so would Duggings. “It’s my godson,” Harry finally supplied. 

Duggins looked up, his eyes very young and bright.

“I’m worried about him,” Harry went on. “I feel like I never see him, unless I go to the pub with his Academy friends. Andromeda says they’re all right—and they are; of course they are. I trained most of them. But she doesn’t hear them talk.”

Duggins scribbled notes on his pad, so Harry waited. The office was drab, like Robards office in the Auror Department, a non-descript room with a non-descript desk, non-descript chairs, non-descript degrees framed on the wall from non-descript magical universities, even though there were only sixteen in the whole world. There were no windows.

Eventually Duggins flipped back through pages and pages of notes. “Andromeda is your godson’s grandmother.”

Harry blinked. Everyone in Wizarding Britain knew who Teddy Lupin was; they all knew Andromeda Tonks as well. Harry thought about telling Duggins he should brush up on his _Daily Prophet_ gossip columns, but this was unfair. He shouldn’t expect Duggins to ignore his fame on the one hand and know everything about him on the other. Kavika had, but she had been the wife of the Minister of Magic. She knew better than most what this kind of life was like, and Harry shouldn’t blame Duggins for being ignorant of it. 

“Yes,” Harry said. “Last year, my—what I said about the Auror Department upset him.” Realizing that this comment was predicated on Duggins having knowledge of that press conference, Harry didn’t wait for a question, explaining how last year after the incident with Travers’s hate speech, he had told the press blood prejudice was a problem on the Auror Force.

“I see,” said Duggins, scribbling.

“Right,” Harry said. “Teddy’s studying to be an Auror, so it’s obvious why it would upset him. He seems to have forgiven me; after what happened to Malfoy, I think Teddy began to see just how deeply blood prejudice is ingrained in wizard culture, even if it hasn’t affected him directly. And now with Fudge—I just think it’s set him off.”

“What happened with Malfoy?” 

Harry stared at him. “That would be the trainee that didn’t pass.”

“Right,” Duggins said quickly. “Right. Just making sure I’m following.”

“I had hoped that the Order of the Phoenix would keep him busy,” Harry said, half expecting to be asked what the Order of the Phoenix was. Kingsley and Kavika had announced the resurrection of the Order directly after Kingsley’s resignation, repurposing the Order into a public-facing political organization rather than a secret team of guerrilla spies fighting against militant coup. Duggins, however, didn’t ask about the Order, and Harry went on, “But when I told Teddy the Order needed volunteers, he said he was ‘busy with other things.’ I just don’t know _what_ other things. I just worry . . .”

Duggins wrote for a long time before he looked up. “You worry?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said.

The scritch scritch scritch of Duggins’s quill filled the mostly empty office. Harry didn’t want to have to wait ten minutes for a follow up question, but he also wasn’t sure he wanted to confide in Duggins to begin with. Still, these sessions were protected by Unbreakable Vow, and Harry needed someone to talk to about it. He’d already talked to Ron and Hermione, but there was only so much talking about Teddy they had time for. He didn’t want to keep burdening Andromeda with his worries either. 

“I’m worried about the people taking down the wards,” Harry finally said. “Ostensibly, they’re pro-Revealers trying to prove that we can live peacefully with non-magical people, but it hurts more than it helps. I’m not always a fan of political solutions—I certainly wasn’t in the last war.”

Scritch, scritch, scritch.

“But when it comes to Reveal,” Harry went on. “I think we need the Deal. Dropping the wards without mechanisms in place for non-magical people to learn about and understand the magical world would be a disaster.”

Duggins was still writing furiously on his notepad, and Harry waited for him to stop. When at last he did, Duggins looked up, but he was poised to write, as though expecting Harry to say more.

“That’s all,” Harry said, then felt bad about it. Obviously, Duggins was being open, receptive to Harry’s thoughts. Possibly, Harry was again being a bit of an arse.

“I can understand why you’re worried,” Duggins said, after a long pause.

“You can?” Harry asked, surprised.

Duggins nodded. “Many people are worried about the affiliations of loved ones just now, what side of Reveal they support.”

“I know what side Teddy supports,” Harry said. 

“Yes, of course, obviously; I didn’t mean Theodore Lupin would—I mean. Yes.” Duggins scribbled something, then looked up. “Would you like to talk about it more?”

“No?” Harry said, then realized he might be being an arse again. “I mean—I’m interested in what you think.”

Duggins shook his head. “We’re not here to discuss my opinions on Reveal. This is about you.”

“I meant—what you think about what I think,” Harry said, a bit confused about having to explain this. Wasn’t this meant to be a conversation? It always was with Kavika, but maybe that was because he had known her better. They moved in the same worlds; they contended with the same people. That, she said, was not the ideal situation for therapy, but Harry had liked it. He’d always known where she was coming from. “About Teddy,” Harry further clarified, just in case Duggins still thought Harry wanted his political views.

“It’s understandable that you’re worried about him.”

“Right,” Harry said. “But what should I do?”

“What do you think you should do?”

Though this was a very Kavika question, Harry found himself frustrated by it. This wasn’t fair, because when Harry was with Kavika, he knew her well enough to trust her, and trusting her made him feel like he could share. “I don’t think there’s anything I can do,” he said at last, trying to share anyway. “Teddy is his own person. I have to let him be that.”

Duggins’s quill went scritch scritch scritch, and Harry waited. He waited, and he waited, and he waited. “What do you think?” he asked at last.

“I think that’s very understandable,” Duggins said, and Harry’s heart sank.

This poor boy. This poor, poor boy, sharing his sympathy, his compassion, with someone who did not appreciate it, with someone who needed just a bit of sarcasm and verbal jousting just to check that he was alive. Even Ron, with all his endless kindness, joked around and teased him; Hermione was so clever that her compassion pierced just like a knife. Kavika had not let Harry get away with his bullshit; Luna was always sincere, but so genuine that she at times put Harry to shame. Duggins was just doing his very best to care as much as possible, and Harry couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand it at all. “Thank you for your understanding,” he said, trying to be kind.

Duggins brightened like a Lumos. “Would you like to tell me more?” he asked.

“Of course,” Harry said.

*

The rainy November rolled into a sleet-filled December, its opening days immediately unpleasant with ice so heavy Harry had had to cast a warming spell on his door to open it. The weather seemed to match his mood, which felt dreary with Fudge’s victory, the loss of Kavika, and an ever-present suspicion that Teddy was up to no good. When the time for the Academy holiday party came around, Harry wasn’t really interested in going, not in the least because Fudge would likely be there, and—so far—Harry had avoided the sight of his pudgy face. Vinicius had wanted to go, however, and Teddy would be there, which was how Harry found himself now, standing against the wall with his boyfriend.

“Just think,” Vinicius was saying. “I got to know you again a year ago in this very spot.”

“It’s a wonder you’d come back here,” Harry said, teasing. 

“I’m hoping I’ll find a better boyfriend, obviously,” said Vinicius.

Harry laughed. Their relationship was one of the longest relationships Harry had been in, and Vinicius didn’t ask for very much, which was nice. “In Ron’s words, you’ve got twelve options.” He waved his arms magnanimously at the dancers on the floor. “Take your pick.”

“Oh, is Ron available?” asked Vinicius, looking interested.

Ron was currently dancing with his wife, and the entire wizarding world knew he was infatuated with her. “You can try,” Harry said drily.

“Hm.” Surveying the territory of the dance floor over the rim of his cocktail glass, Vinicius appeared to take stock. “Is it just me,” Vinicius said slowly, “or has Draco Malfoy got fit since he came out?”

Harry coughed, then felt embarrassed—a little for Vinicius, a lot for Malfoy. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

Harry scanned the crowd, finding Malfoy easily enough. He had on a sleek three-piece grey suit—so much for his new style of women’s shirts and threadbare jumpers. He was dancing with Nyala, who had on an absolute cake of a pink dress and looked as though she positively glowed. Not far from them, dancing with Penelope, was a bloke in gold and red, deeper than Gryffindor red, but still striking, setting off brown skin, an extremely expressive face, and wavy black hair. Harry felt he recognized the bloke from somewhere, and he wondered why Vinicius was not talking about _that_ one, if they were talking fit. “Malfoy looks the same to me,” Harry said, spelling a little canapé off a nearby tray.

“I think he’s fitter,” Vinicius insisted.

“I suppose his hair is better,” Harry said, because Malfoy had got a cut, or something, and the way it was short in back and long in front could be considered rather pleasing, by people who weren’t Harry. “And he wears makeup.”

“Don’t you think that’s an improvement?”

“On Malfoy?” Harry asked.

“What about Malfoy?” Teddy asked, lifting another canapé off the same tray Harry had taken his from as he walked to join Harry and Vinicius against the wall.

Harry coughed again, but Vinicius said blithely, “Harry doesn’t think Malfoy’s got fitter since he got gayer. I beg to differ.”

“Did he get gayer, though?” Teddy asked. “Or did he stay the exact same level of gay he always was, and just talk about it more?”

“Did he get fitter, though,” Vinicius said. “That’s the question.”

Teddy looked out toward the dance floor, finding Malfoy dancing with the hot one. “I suppose he was always fit as well.”

_No_ , went Harry’s brain, but Vinicius put out his hand. “I’m Vinicius Souza.”

Teddy touched Vinicius’s wrist, then took his hand away. “Teddy Lupin.”

“Oh Merlin, Teddy,” Vinicius said, snatching his hand away. “Why didn’t you tell me it was you?”

Teddy was very tall and lanky today, with fluorescent green hair that matched fluorescent green robes. “You didn’t ask.”

Harry held up his hands as Vinicius whirled on him. “I thought you knew.”

“How could I know?” Vinicius demanded. “He’s two meters tall. And green!”

“Sorry.” Harry rubbed the back of his hand. “That’s why I thought you knew.”

“Just for that, I’m going to dance with him.” Vinicius thrust his drink at Harry, who took it with some bemusement. 

“My dance card’s full,” said Teddy.

“I meant with the hot one.” Vinicius crooked his finger in the hot one’s direction.

“I was meaning to ask,” Harry said. “I know I’ve seen him before—what’s his name?”

Vinicius rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me Draco Malfoy is a Metamorphmagus too. Is it a Black family gene?”

“Oh,” Harry said. “You meant Malfoy.”

“I don’t know if it’s a Black gene,” Teddy said. “My grandfather was a non-mag, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t also have had a Metamorphmagus gene.”

“Obviously, I meant Malfoy,” Vinicius told Harry. “Who did you think I meant?” 

“Magic, if it’s a gene, is definitely recessive,” Teddy told no one in particular.

“That one,” Harry told Vinicius, pointing.

“Which one?”

“Rune Photsi,” said Teddy.

“Oh.” Harry had heard of Rune Photsi; he was a Thai wizard, famous for leading protests against the Thai Council of Magic. Harry had seen pictures of him in _The Daily Prophet_ and had admired the way Photsi stood against the dictatorship of the Council.

Vinicius made a noise. “I didn’t mean Rune Photsi levels of hot, Harry. Let’s at least be realistic.”

“I’m not that level of hot?” Harry asked, pretending to be offended.

“Well, but I’m already dating you.” Winking, Vinicius left them in search of Malfoy, who had ended his dance with Nyala.

Teddy looked out after Vinicius. “I didn’t mean to trick him.”

“I know,” Harry said. “He’ll get over it. He just wasn’t expecting you.”

Dance with Malfoy over, Nyala came their way. “I didn’t fall!” she announced proudly, also grabbing a canapé, then thinking about it and grabbing two more before joining them. Her mouth was half full as she spoke, and her cheeks were flushed dark with pleasure.

“Draco wouldn’t let you fall,” Teddy said, his tone mild.

“I brought canapés?” Nyala said, hopefully holding them out, one in hand for Harry, the other in her other hand for Teddy. 

“Thanks,” said Teddy, taking one.

“Thanks.” Harry took one as well. “You looked beautiful.”

“I’d really like to say that Draco’s and my pure-blood upbringing was useful for something,” Nyala said, “but I don’t want to, because the pure-blood upbringing had aspirations of genocide. But he does dance really pretty.”

“I’m sure you would dance nicely without any aspirations of genocide,” Harry said. “As would Malfoy.”

“Is moving nicely genetic?” Teddy wanted to know, then turned to Nyala. “We were discussing Black family genes.”

“If it is,” Harry said, “I don’t think Malfoy got it. He was terrible in hand-to-hand the first year he took it.”

Nyala had a round face with a little bud of a mouth and large dark eyes. Her curly hair was piled in a fanciful way atop her head, with little butterflies and flowers nesting in it. “I think Draco is fantastic,” she said, surprised. “You’ve said he is. He’s an excellent sparring partner.”

“Exactly,” Harry agreed. “He’s not a natural. He worked at it. I think Malfoy could do anything, if he put his mind to it.”

“Except remove the Dark Mark,” Teddy said.

“He could probably do it,” Harry said.

“Not according to him.” Teddy turned to Nyala. “Is Draco the only one you trust with this dress?”

Nyala laughed. “Do you want to try the Black dancing recessive gene?” she asked, holding out her hand.

“I could be persuaded,” Teddy said, as easily as he said everything, but Harry could tell he was pleased. Taking Nyala’s hand, they turned toward the dance floor. “Tell Vinicius sorry,” Teddy said over his shoulder, as Nyala swept him away.

Harry watched them for a few moments. They seemed young and so happy, Nyala’s puffy pink dress and Teddy’s long green robes making them look like a flower plucked from spring time. Elsewhere on the dance floor, Vinicius was dancing with Malfoy, who was definitely not the fitter of the two. Nyala had a point about the dancing, however; both Vinicius and Malfoy virtually floated, like faerie lights. Vinicius was quite possibly the best-looking bloke there, except for perhaps Ron and Rune Photsi.

Hermione was dancing with Proudfoot, no doubt hatching plots against Fudge, and Ron was dancing with Gardenia Greengrass. The things that man did for love. The Greengrasses were loathsome, but Hermione needed their influence and was not above using Ron to get it. Meanwhile, Ron would do anything for Hermione, and also he was fit, so perhaps Gardenia didn’t mind.

“Excuse me, Harry Potter?”

Harry turned, girding himself. Usually there weren’t many fans at the holiday party, as the invite list was so narrow, but inevitably somebody’s date had not yet met him, and Harry had to get through a least one awkward conversation.

“I’ve longed to meet you for a while,” said Rune Photsi, and he was even better-looking up close. About Harry’s age, he was lean, with a thick set of shoulders on him. His mobile lips were pulled into a smile that lit his whole face, below bright dark eyes and messy dark hair. No wonder half the wizarding world was obsessed with him.

“And I, you,” Harry said, putting out his hand. “What brings you to the UK, Mister Photsi?” he asked, after they had shaken.

“Oh, Rune, please. I’ve come on invitation, actually, from former Minister Shacklebolt.”

“I wasn’t aware you knew each other,” Harry said. “But I suppose Kingsley has friends all over.”

“I must confess.” Locking his hands behind his back, Rune had on a boyish smile. “I asked for the invitation. I’m interested in the Order of the Phoenix.”

So far, Kavika and Kingsley had centred the work of the Order around helping non-magborn magical people reveal the magical world to their non-magical families. The hope was that this work would ease the way for Reveal, as all the conversations about non-magborns coming out as magical to their families had been integral to the Deal. Kingsley had demanded protections for non-magborns, as they stood to be most vulnerable as a result of Reveal, but the other side had argued the non-magborns had more protection than most, as they already had non-magical families that loved them. This argument conveniently ignored the fact that many non-magborns never told their families about their powers, or were forced to Obliviate family members to maintain the Statute.

The main work of the organization was through fund-raising, which would help them support Ministry initiatives focused on Reveal as well as existing organizations that could build connections to non-magborn magical people. Kingsley was working with his state and business connections, whereas Kavika was focused on schools. Hogwarts, the Academy, St. Mugo’s Training Program—even the Squib kindergarten where Andromeda sometimes worked all had non-magborn people attending and working there, and the support networks in those places would help educate non-mag families.

“They have a good mission,” Harry agreed.

“Yes,” said Rune. “I’m thinking about founding a similar company.”

“I wouldn’t call the Order of the Phoenix a company,” Harry said; then: “I thought you were going to run for Prime Minister of wizarding Thailand.”

“Ah.” For some reason, Rune seemed to find this funny. “I’m not very patient, you see. I would do a poor job, running a country. Not enough drama.”

“Oh.” Harry rubbed the back of his hand. “I think I might have had enough drama.”

Rune’s expressive features melted into something soft. “This, I can understand.”

“What would the company you’re founding do?”

Rune’s face quickly brightened again as he described his idea: an international group that would focus on aid the wizarding world could bring to the non-magical world. “Of course, it’s contingent on the United Kingdom breaking the Statute, which it’s resolved to do. I recognize there are enough problems internally, trying to bring about the Deal, but in the last year, I’m sure you know Kingsley was more focused on the international issues.”

This was like talking to a hot boy Hermione, and Harry found he was maybe turned on. “Not exactly,” was all he said.

“Right,” Rune said, both quickly and gently. “I had heard you don’t always follow politics assiduously.”

Harry wondered who told him that, and whether they had used the word _assiduously_ , because then it was either Kingsley or Hermione herself, but Rune was eager not to leave Harry out, and he was rapidly explaining.

“With the UK leaving the EU,” Rune was saying, “some of the international wizarding community is hoping to isolate the UK entirely, so that Reveal wouldn’t affect the rest of the wizarding world. This would be extremely difficult for the non-magical people, obviously, as it would require isolating the UK more than it already plans to isolate itself. It would need to become another Atlantis, and I’m sure you know the last time wizards disappeared a whole island, it was four thousand years ago. There’s a reason we haven’t done it since.”

“So, your plan would be to get other wizarding countries to join your organization to prevent them from isolating us?” Harry asked. “Why would they?”

“Not exactly.” Rune moved his hands when he talked, enthusiastic and fluid. “The plan is to get non-magicals on our side, that they wouldn’t _let_ the wizarding world isolate the UK. There are so many benefits to magic—have you seen non-magical medicine?”

“I have,” Harry said, “in fact.”

“Right.” Rune gave him a chagrined smile. “I forgot; you were raised by non-magicals. But then, you know what I mean. If we could build a coalition with them—”

Harry had been so engrossed by what Rune was saying that he hadn’t noticed Malfoy, who had joined them over by the wall. Rune had cut himself off, turning to include Malfoy into the space.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Malfoy’s eyes swept over Rune in a way that Harry recognized, because in his first year of Level One, Malfoy had looked that way at him all the time. Harry felt embarrassed that he hadn’t recognized it and embarrassed for Malfoy now that he did. “Please. Continue.”

Rune flashed one of his energetic smiles. “I was just saying, the organization I want to start. We could build a coalition with non-magicals, starting with the families of non-magicalborns. That’s where former Minister Shacklebolt’s organization can be leveraged,” Rune said, turning back to Harry.

“He’s brilliant, isn’t he?” Malfoy asked, and Harry felt himself grow more embarrassed still at the naked admiration in Malfoy’s tone.

“Yes,” Harry said, honestly. “What does Kingsley think?”

“He approves,” Malfoy said.

“I’ve been neglecting you.” Rune looked at Malfoy now with his big eyes, a little worry at the corner of them.

“I’m surviving. Besides, who doesn’t want to talk to Harry Potter?” But Malfoy was looking at Rune, his eyes warmer and his face softer than Harry had ever seen it. “I just wanted to see if I could bring you anything. Food? Champagne? Embarrassing stories about Hogwarts?” Malfoy waved his fingers at Harry, exactly as though they had been somehow schoolboy rivals, instead of a bully and his victim.

Rune’s face broke into another brilliant smile. “How about a dance?”

Draco blushed, then looked at Harry. “Do you mind?”

“No,” Harry said, then realized just how shocked he sounded. “No,” he added, to show he really didn’t mind. “Go on ahead.”

“I do so wish to hear your thoughts, but I don’t want to be a bad date,” Rune said, his own cheeks gone a bit darker. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

“You wouldn’t be a bad date if you tried,” Malfoy told him. “Everyone would still think you’re brilliant.”

“I don’t mind,” Harry repeated.

“But we can talk later?” Rune asked, sounding hopeful.

“Of course,” Harry said, his voice mechanic.

Rune took Malfoy’s hand, leading him away.

“Was that that famous Thai wizard?” Ron asked, after both Malfoy and Rune had swept off onto the dance floor. Ron had apparently finished romancing Greengrass, and had joined him by the canapés, holding five of them on the palm of his large hand and eating one after another. “Photsi? Someone?”

“Rune Photsi,” Harry said, still speaking rather slowly, without inflection. “He’s dancing with Draco Malfoy.”

“Right, they came together,” Ron said. “I heard they’re dating.”

“Oh,” said Harry.

“Harry.” Ron had this smile on, gently curving up half of his wide mouth. “You thought he was fit.”

“Who do you mean?”

“Who do you reckon?”

“Um.” Harry smiled.

“Photsi,” Ron said, but he wasn’t smiling any more. Instead, he looked out over at the dancing couple, then back at Harry, then back out at the floor. “Look at it this way,” he said, his voice softer. “At least Malfoy isn’t in love with you any more.”

“Right,” Harry said.

Ron’s brow began to knit. “Harry—”

“Merlin’s ankleboots!” Vinicius announced, returning with a whirl of his blue robes. “Did you know that Draco Malfoy came with Rune _Photsi_? You see Harry?” Vinicius slapped Harry’s back. “I _told_ you Malfoy was fit.”

“Oh,” said Ron.

*

Christmas at Old Wob that year was just a little gloomier. Though Hermione had taken her defeat in Council in stride, the resulting appointment of Fudge had caused her to dedicate herself that much more intently to negotiation of the Deal, which was mostly in pieces by now. Ron seemed stretched thin, supporting her, doing most of the care-giving for the kids, and still working his full-time job. The only bright spot was Nyala, who spent the hols with them instead of the Zabinis. Even that was tinged with melancholy, as Harry suspected Nyala was with them because the Zabinis did not want her. No wonder she got along so well with Malfoy and Astoria. And Rune Photsi, Harry reminded himself, because he could not avoid the stray copies of Molly’s _Witch Weekly_ in the Burrow on New Year’s Eve, which informed them all that Malfoy and Rune were _The wizarding world’s hottest new couple!_

“The vote is in!” George had announced gleefully, waving _Witch Weekly_ about his mother’s house. “We have it from the _authority_ , Walter Wigisnost himself! Malfoy—wait for it—is _fit_.”

“Some of us knew that,” Angelina had told him.

“Why are you always on about Malfoy?” Charlie had wanted to know. “Rune Photsi is _just there_. On the bloody cover. _The_ Rune Photsi.”

“Rank them by hotness,” George demanded, slamming _Witch Weekly_ down, like a glove.

“I’m not going to rank them by hotness,” Charlie said.

“So, I’m going to set up the fireworks,” Ron said, looking very gracious and likeable, next to his brothers, who were trolls. “If you want to help me, Harry.”

Harry went outside to help him. As the fire exploded against the sky in colourful showers of sparks, Ron put his strong arm around Harry’s shoulders, the other arm around Hermione’s waist. Sometimes Harry thought that Ron might be the only thing holding him up. The rest of the time, he was sure it was Hermione, and his world was a series of firecrackers, burning bright and then fading into nothing.

*

On the first day of new term after the hols, a cup of hot coffee prepared the way Harry liked it was waiting on Harry’s desk. For some reason, Harry was surprised. _I will never, never move on_ , Malfoy had said, but Harry thought maybe he had, a little bit. Malfoy had a boyfriend now, apparently; he had Astoria, and Teddy, and Nyala, and half the Level Ones worshipping at his feet; he had been disowned; he’d started wearing makeup. He didn’t really seem like the same person that he had been, and Harry drank his coffee supposing not enough had changed.

Malfoy’s Patronus hadn’t changed. Harry had seen it often enough in the autumn term—a great, well-muscled stag, easily cast, quicker than the other Level Ones. Harry expected to see the stag again today, as it was the Boggart lesson in ADADA. Last year Malfoy’s Boggart had been his own Patronus, same as it had been the year before, the first time Malfoy had taken Level One. Malfoy had never said anything, really, about having to repeat Level One three times, though no doubt he had to other people. His opinion could probably be easily discovered in some edition of _Witch Weekly_ or other, but Harry hadn’t made a point to seek it out. 

He should have paid more attention to Boggarts in Malfoy’s first year. Travers’s Boggart had been a non-mag, but Harry hadn’t recognized it, rather distracted by Malfoy cutting to the back of the queue over and over. Malfoy hadn’t done that last year. He’d just faced his Boggart, cast Riddikulus, turned around without waiting to see what it did, and walked away.

This year, however, Malfoy wasn’t the one cutting to the back of the queue. It was Nyala.

They had already had two pseudo-Voldemorts, one Dementor, one cliff for a fear of heights, and a fire. When Malfoy came to the front, Harry waited, but instead of expanding into a silver stag, the Boggart shrank. At first, Harry thought that it had disappeared, but then he looked at the floor. A skull sat on the wood boards, grinning a lipless grin. Malfoy feared his own death, Harry concluded, and it was common enough. Usually that looked more like a gravestone with the person’s name on it, but then the skull began to move.

The skull tipped back, away from the lower jaw, and a snake slithered out. For a strange, displaced moment, Harry remembered when Malfoy had Summoned that snake during that duel Lockhart had made them fight, and thought, _How could Malfoy be afraid of snakes all this time, and I not know it?_

“Riddikulus,” Malfoy said, sounding dismissive and quite irritated. It shouldn’t have worked; _Riddikulus_ was one of those spells that required a force of feeling, but the skull’s eyes grew flowers, and the snake had on a little party hat.

_The Dark Mark_ , Harry realized belatedly, as Malfoy turned and walked back to the end of the queue, and then the Boggart was already turning into a non-mag rifle. Henrietta Bones, Harry noted, looking at the trainee, but she was Susan’s daughter, and probably more aware than most of actual dangers non-magical people could present. Her father was non-magical. Bones cast _Riddikulus_ , and the gun shot out a flag that said, “Bang!” The next trainee came up in the queue, and the Boggart shifted into a Death Eater for the next trainee and another Dementor for the trainee after that.

They were mostly through the queue when Harry became aware of the soft talking at the back of the room. Malfoy’s head was bent toward Nyala, who had a worried look in her eyes every time the Boggart shifted. She hadn’t gone yet, and Harry recognized Malfoy’s posture. This was the way he looked when he was encouraging; Harry had seen it enough with Nyala to identify it, not to mention all the other Level Ones Malfoy had advised and encouraged over the past term. When you’d taken the same set of courses three times each, Harry supposed, you might as well be teaching the class.

Harry waited until everyone else had gone, but Nyala still didn’t come to the front of the queue. “Zabini,” Harry said, keeping his voice gentle. “Care to give it a try?”

“Yes.” Turning from Malfoy, Nyala lifted her head, put her shoulders back, and marched to the front of the queue.

The Boggart, which had been Riddikulused into a cartoonish-looking vampire with only wizened gums instead of teeth, shifted into several forms—a tall man with green hair, a blond one with a pretty face, a form that almost looked like Harry’s—and then it fell to the floor. The body on the ground was Teddy’s most familiar form, colour leaching from it faster than it should. Harry knew the speed it should take; he had seen enough people die.

The blood of the body turned cool. Teddy stiffened with rigor mortis. His face was a rictus of pain, of fear. Harry had had this nightmare before.

A sound filled the silence, the creak of a door. Wrenching his eyes away from the body on the ground, Harry looked up to see Malfoy slipping out of the door. Then Harry quickly turned back to his trainee, who had apparently been roused by the sound of the door as well.

“Riddikulus,” she said, her voice strong, her hand only shaking a little.

The body rolled over to reveal itself a straw dummy. Its straw hands held a box of chocolates. This was how Riddikulus worked, of course, revealing the Boggart as a fake, adding touches that were comforting or funny, because laughter was such a powerful weapon against fear. How could a spell know that after death, Lupin still tried to give people chocolates as well?

Harry’s soul abruptly left his body, and he turned into a machine. “Very good, Zabini,” he heard himself say from afar. Casting Accio on the Boggart, Harry also saw from afar; he saw himself put it in its trunk, just as though nothing was happening; he saw that his hands were not shaking. His body turned to face the class, and he was not far away at all; he was inside of it, but he was not a part of it. He was not a part of the voice that said, “We may not think of Riddikulus as a combat spell, but sometimes the unexpected can force an opponent off their guard—much like Riddikulus itself. Can you think of some other spells that could be used in such a way?”

Harry heard the traditional answers: Tarantallegra, Expelliarmus, Engorgio, Reducio, Lumos, Aguamenti, the Bat Bogey Hex, heat spells, cold spells. He did not have to think about them to accept them and discuss them; he did not have to think about it to point out that Protego was definitely a combat spell and didn’t fit the category. He had to stop when someone suggested a tree-growing spell, because that one was slow and might not work. Sensing that he was actually having to think about it, which might mean he would have to think of everything, Harry said that they would come back to it. Usually they did practice next, but if he could keep them going for long enough he wouldn’t have to think at all; then they would go and he could finally be alone, alone, alone—

And what about Nyala? She hadn’t been comforted at all; he should have said something, anything. He usually said something, when someone had a Boggart like that; what should he say? Should he tell her that could be his Boggart as well? Should he . . . ? But even the thought of talking to Nyala was causing him to think, and he must not think; he must not think; he would do something; he would say something, and it would horrify the children; he would frighten them; he must not think—

The door opened. Malfoy slipped inside, and the distraction was enough to cause Harry to glance at the clock. They had two minutes until end of class. “All right,” Harry said, “dismissed. This has been a good discussion; we’ll work on the practicum on Wednesday.”

The trainees began to stream out of the classroom, and Harry felt like they were taking what was left of his faculties with them. He had talked for them, stood up for them, pretended for them, as though nothing was wrong, but now they were going, going, going and he was gone; his insides were all gone. “Nyala,” Harry said, realizing he could not let go of duty. He started toward the door, where the last of the trainees were disappearing.

“I brought Teddy,” Malfoy said, beside him. “He’s waiting for her in the corridor. Do you need him?”

Harry turned to look at him uncomprehendingly, and Malfoy’s expression broke all over into softness. “Come,” he said lowly, taking Harry by the arm, so gently, leading him to Harry’s desk, his chair. “Sit,” Malfoy told him, so Harry sat.

“What can I do?” Malfoy said, letting go Harry’s wrist. His voice was still low, urgent. “Do you need them? Should I bring them in?”

“No.” Harry shook his head. “I’m all right.”

Malfoy hesitated. 

Harry wasn’t there. He was there, but he wasn’t really there. He was dazed. Malfoy was still there. Harry should be handling this better. _Don’t think of what you should be feeling,_ Kavika would say. The problem was he had no Kavika, and even though Harry had had nightmares about it, seeing an actual body that was Teddy’s lose all semblance of life—that was hard. A while had passed since Harry had seen a dead one. A real one. There had been a time in his life when someone he cared about died every year: Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, Lupin and Tonks. But that had ended. It had ended.

He was all right.

Malfoy was sitting on the floor, knees up, not looking at him.

“I’m all right,” Harry said again.

“Naturally.” Malfoy got to his feet rather quickly.

“Are you all right?”

“Me?” Malfoy seemed shocked that he would be asked such a thing.

Harry caught his eyes. He held them. “You.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened slightly. “Mm-hm. Yeah. I’m good. How about you?”

“I’m still fine,” Harry said.

“Are you sure? Do you need . . . a Weasley?”

“A Weasley?” Harry asked. “Shall you pop over to a shop and grab one, then?”

“They come in shops?” Malfoy looked interested in this. “Of course, they do. By the dozen.”

For some reason, Harry actually found this funny. Malfoy didn’t sound like he was making fun of Ron, or any of the Weasleys. He sounded like he was flipping words around for the fun of it.

As though encouraged by Harry’s partial smile, Malfoy warmed to the subject. “Don’t ask me for a Granger, though. Those are one of a kind. Will a Granger-Weasley do? I hear there are one or two of those.”

“Two.”

“Oh.” Malfoy seemed interested in this as well. “Are they limited edition? Or are they making more?”

Harry laughed.

Malfoy looked startled again. Then he beamed.

“They’re stopping at two.” Harry stood, then held out his hand. “Let me see your arm.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

Harry rolled his eyes, and though Malfoy seemed suspicious, he gave it to him. “Nice jumper,” Harry commented, pushing up Malfoy’s sleeve. 

Harry had seen the jumper many times over the course of the last year, a large, shapeless thing that covered up his figure—which was basically his only decent physical quality, George would have been pleased to learn. Malfoy’s shape had been good before, but he had put on a bit of weight in the past three years, in the form of muscle. Probably all that hand-to-hand. The jumper was frayed at the hems, threads coming loose everywhere.

“It was Astoria’s dad’s,” Malfoy said, sounding strangely strained.

Surprised, Harry looked up from studying the Dark Mark just under the threadbare cuff of Malfoy’s jumper to look at Malfoy’s face. “You’re wearing Lionel Greengrass’s jumper?”

“Do you fancy _him_ wearing it, the state it’s in?”

“No, I—” 

Malfoy, distracted, was glancing down. Realizing he was still holding Malfoy’s arm, Harry quickly looked down at the Mark again, seeing if he could sense the magic that bound it. When Harry touched it, Malfoy shivered, and that was quite enough. Harry let him go. “You tried extracting blood from it, for the blood oath?”

“Tried it,” Malfoy said, quickly pulling his sleeve down and shoving his hand into his pocket. “Anaemic for a week.” 

“I’m sorry.” Turning around to look at his desk, Harry found a quill. Pulling a fresh sheet of parchment toward him, he began to jot down notes. “And you tried scarring potions? Burn treatment potions?”

“I tried everything.”

“You didn’t try asking me.” Harry wrote down a few more notes— _bone binding? Fear binding? Possession?_

Behind him, Malfoy was silent.

At last, out of ideas, Harry folded the parchment into a square, then turned around. Malfoy was looking at him with this wounded look, as though Harry had said something painful. “Is that something I can do, now?” Malfoy said, his voice a dry whisper. “Ask you?”

“Of course,” Harry said. “Why not?”

“I thought . . .” Malfoy licked his lips. Actually, he did that a lot, and his lips weren’t the bad part of his face. Neither were his eyes. Nor his nose, even; it was just the sum of the pieces that wasn’t quite good-looking. “I thought I would have to bear it. The Mark. Given—what I’ve done.”

“Bear it?” Harry asked. “What, you don’t think insomnia and being disowned are enough? You have to have his Mark on you too?”

“You remember that I can’t sleep?” Malfoy’s eyes were wreathed with something a little like hope.

_Just because I can’t love you doesn’t mean I can’t think of you as a human being,_ Harry wanted to snap, because he felt impatient. Malfoy had cut him in a thousand ways, when they were young, not to mention that he had been a blade who sliced through everyone else he touched as well—Hermione for her blood, Ron for his family, Hagrid for the sheer front of his existence. But sometimes, in moments like these, Malfoy acted as though forgiving such wounds and adoring the person who had given them were the same thing, and they weren’t. They weren’t. “Of course, I remember,” Harry said, very gently. “You also told me that you’re a knitter.”

The hope had faded, and something like warm humour had replaced it. “Fishing for a knit scarf, Potter?”

“I don’t know; do you make them?”

“I don’t know,” Malfoy echoed, shrugging. “Could do.”

“You may have to live with your mistakes,” Harry told him. “You may have to live with scars. But you shouldn’t have to live with Voldemort’s enslavement on your skin, not if you don’t have to.”

Malfoy’s eyes flicked up to Harry’s forehead. “You do.”

“That wasn’t enslavement.”

Malfoy tilted his head. “Wasn’t it?”

Harry swallowed, putting the square of parchment into his pocket so he would remember to think about it later. “Thanks for your help,” he said, “with Nyala. She was all right?”

“Not really,” Malfoy said, “but Teddy’s there.”

“Well, thanks again.”

This was an obvious wrap-up to the conversation, but Malfoy still stood there, unmoving, and Harry felt a little awkward saying goodbye or leaving without a reply. Eventually, Malfoy stirred. “I haven’t asked you,” he said. “To remove the Mark.”

“Do you want to keep it?” Harry asked, surprised.

“No, I meant . . . I wouldn’t. Ask that of you.”

“You’ve asked more of me before,” Harry pointed out, then wished he hadn’t. Malfoy looked distinctly uncomfortable, as though he would rather forget any sort of embarrassing confession he had ever made. Perhaps he just didn’t like to talk about it, but perhaps, with the change of his Boggart, he was finally learning to grow beyond it. “Anyway,” Harry added, in a bit of a rush to change the subject, “I never asked for the coffees or Notice Me Nots or sandwiches, but you do them anyway. Let me do this for you.”

“I don’t want repayment.”

“Not everything is about payment and repayment. Sometimes someone does something just because they can.”

“I know that! You were the one who was saying—” Breaking off, Malfoy huffed.

“Let me,” Harry said.

“I’m obviously not preventing you.”

“Weren’t you?” Harry’s voice was a little teasing. “I wasn’t sure.”

“That’s because _you_ can do anything you want. You’re bloody—” Malfoy cut himself off again, making another gesture with his hand that seemed as though it was trying to describe everything that Harry was. “You can do anything you want,” he repeated, more softly.

“I’ll work on it,” Harry said.

Malfoy tilted his head, looking a little bit the way he used to, when his face was rounder and he was better-looking, and his owl would come into the Great Hall clutching chocolates from his mother. Once the chocolates were dropped off, he always looked self-satisfied or else petulant he hadn’t got more, but when the owls were coming in, Harry had caught him looking wistful, once or twice, almost hungry. Harry had thought at the time Malfoy was just really wanting sweets, but he realized now that maybe Malfoy had looked that way because he missed his mum. 

Harry had missed a lot of things, he supposed, because he hadn’t had a mum, and Malfoy had been a prat. This thought had occurred to him before, but he had not felt a lot of pressure to spend sympathy on a bigot and a bully. He could spend it now, Harry realized, but then Malfoy straightened, angling his face away.

“Thanks,” he said, then turned and walked away.

*

In the new year Harry started seeing Doctor Thato Sibanyoni, who had gone to school with Kavika and now lived in South Africa. His had been one of the portkeys Kavika had said that she could loan him when she had told him she could no longer treat him. Harry had seen her over the hols—her and Kingsley; Harry had been to a holiday fundraiser for the Order. Kavika had been sympathetic about his experiences with Milligan and Duggins, while offering the same advice as Hermione. _It’s all right to shop around. Don’t expect a perfect fit on the first try._

Doctor Sibanyoni was promising, despite the way his portkey turned Harry’s stomach over several times in his belly as it jolted him through space. Sibanyoni’s office was extremely cosy, filled with comfortable chairs and soft rugs, colourful paintings on the wall, and not a desk in sight. The first visit felt less like a therapy session and more like getting to know a new instructor who would be working at the Academy: the conversation was a little stilted, awkward, because they were strangers, but the focus was on getting to know each other and less about Harry’s specific troubles. 

The second session was rather more about Harry’s specific troubles than Harry exactly wanted, as Doctor Sibanyoni had really seemed to want to delve deeply into Harry’s non-magical childhood, and Harry had already talked to Kavika about that a great deal. Harry understood some things now that he had not when he was young, things about abuse, about neglect, about the developmental difficulties such things could cause for children. With Kavika’s help, Harry had seen how some of these experiences had shaped his life and still shaped his character in ways he would not have otherwise seen or understood. Though he had reached a good place with Kavika, Harry could also understand why a new therapist might want an understanding of Harry’s background in order to treat him. After all, Harry’s childhood had been foundational for him, just as it was for every adult who had once been a child.

For the third session, Harry came ready to talk about something else. Sibanyoni began by showing him to a chair and offering him digestive biscuits. “They always make me feel better when I’m porting long distances,” he said, shaking the tin.

“No,” Harry said, because his stomach was still doing flips. “Thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” Sibanyoni said, taking a biscuit for himself before shuffling over to a great big chair full of cushions. Sibanyoni was a small man, his head gone bald, his nose large, his little goatee quite silver. He seemed older than Kavika, but Harry thought he couldn’t be that much older, given that they had gone to school together. Sibanyoni had a way of moving that was slow and just a little laboured, and a twinkle in his eye that reminded Harry of Dumbledore—what Harry remembered of Dumbledore, after all this time. Somehow the portrait didn’t capture that particular sparkle. “I did a five-kilometre run this morning,” Sibanyoni said, abruptly shattering every impression Harry had had of him up to that very second. “I need to get back calories.”

“Five kilometres,” Harry said.

“I usually do eight, but these old worn bones, you know.” Sibanyoni munched on a biscuit. “And how are you today?”

“Not well enough to run five kilometres.”

“I’m sure you could. I’m sure you’ve done it. I’m sure those youths keep you in fighting shape. Defence, is it? Combat, is it? I bet they do.”

“Academy instruction is physical,” Harry agreed. “I suppose I get my exercise.”

“Exercise, yes. Great for the body. Excellent for the body. Do you mind if I . . .?” Sibanyoni held up a soda. When Harry nodded, he popped the top. “Non-magical,” he said, brandishing the can. “Love the things. I’m sorry, do you want one?”

“No,” Harry said, not minding, but actually rather wishing that they could get to the point.

“I bet you’re waiting to get to the point,” said Sibanyoni. “The thing to know: therapy? There is no point. You say what you want. Think what you want. Learn to be happy with what you want. That’s it. That’s all there is. What do you want?”

“Well,” said Harry, feeling uncertain. “I’d like to talk about . . . something that happened.”

“Something that happened. So many things happen. What happened?”

“Vinicius and I,” Harry said. “We broke up.”

“Vinicius,” said Sibanyoni. “Boyfriend. Auror. Boyfriend who is an Auror. Was a boyfriend, is an Auror. How did that make you feel, breaking up?”

“I’m a little relieved, I guess.” Sibanyoni’s had at least several cushions, all of which seemed quite well loved, and in these Harry found at least several threads to pick at, occupying his hands. “I think it felt like . . . work, to keep up with him. But I liked him. He was good. I don’t know.”

“You liked him. What did you like?”

“He was . . . easy to talk to. He cooked. He was good in bed. I don’t know.”

“And you found you couldn’t love him,” Sibanyoni concluded. “He didn’t stir the depths.”

“No. I’m just . . . not sure why. I was with him over a year.”

“The depths are stirred with other partners?”

“Well, generally. Isn’t that how it’s meant to go?”

“Not always. Not always. Depths. They’re deep for a reason. The hidden part, the inner self. The sanctuary.” Sibanyoni took a sip of Diet Coke. “Do you protect it?”

“I’m not . . . trying to,” Harry eventually said, not exactly sure he knew what Sibanyoni was saying. “I try to be open. Since Ginny. And since I started getting therapy. I try to talk about what I feel.”

“It’s not easy. Releasing the demons. Baring the soul. The struggle to be vulnerable to our own vulnerability. We put up walls.”

“I didn’t mean it was easy.” Harry shifted in his chair, feeling now that there were rather _too_ many cushions, and finding that his hand sought his other hand to find the scar. “It’s not. I have to work on—what you said. Being honest about my feelings.”

“Were you honest? With Vinicius?”

Harry felt his scar. _I must not tell lies._ “I tried to be.” 

“What fell apart?”

“I think I wasn’t . . . exciting enough for him. I was—you know; I was ‘Harry Potter’; he thought it was going to be action and adventure. Instead . . . I like to sit in the mornings and drink coffee. I like to be quiet.”

“But what of the chaos within? The turmoil within?” Sibanyoni took another sip of Diet Coke. 

“I’m . . . not sure what you mean?” Harry said, when nothing more seemed forthcoming.

“A façade,” said Sibanyoni, “of quiet mornings. A façade. Of coffee. The walls we build around our inner pain. Around our suffering. Harry Potter has known pain. Harry Potter has known death. Did you share your struggle with death, with pain?”

“Yes?” Harry hazarded. “He knows about the nightmares. I mean, we slept together. And he knows I go to therapy, and the anxiety . . . I think that’s part of why he wanted to end it. The problems that I have. He imagined that I would be a hero, and instead . . . I was me.”

“Hm.” Sibanyoni nodded, sipped his Coke, then again said, “Hm. Did you tell him that? The painful mirror of humanity. Did you hold it up to him?”

“I’m not sure? What are you asking?”

“Did you ask him to see you?” Sibanyoni said. “For who you truly are?”

“I mean . . . I said, I tried to.”

“I’d like to try an exercise. It may seem strange at first. Outside the comfort zone, shall we say. A new realm. An uncomfortable realm. An honest realm.”

“Er,” Harry said, because Sibanyoni was kind of saying a lot of things that didn’t really make sense to him. Were they supposed to make sense? Was Sibanyoni going to tell him, or were they meant to resonate immediately? Was this esoteric mind healer jargon, or was Harry being close-minded? He should be open-minded, if he was going to let himself be helped.

_Don’t think about what you should feel,_ Kavika had told him. _Think about what you feel._

“Sure,” Harry said. “Why not.”

“Excellent. Good.” Sibanyoni took a sip of Coke. “Horizons. Stretched.” He made a frittering motion with his hand that was maybe a horizon stretching. “If Vinicius was an animal, what animal would he be?”

The non sequitur of the question actually made Harry stop rubbing his scar. “Do you mean if he was an Animagus?”

“An Animagus, sure. Think outside the Animagus box. Think outside the Patronus box. If he were an Animagus with a Patronus, what animal would he be?”

Harry wasn’t sure what this meant. “His Patronus is an alpaca.”

“Would he be an alpaca?”

“As an Animagus?”

“Don’t take it literally.” Sibanyoni sipped his Coke.

_I don’t know which way to take it_ , Harry thought, but he was being open-minded. “Sure. He could be an alpaca.”

“Excellent. Alpaca. Excellent. Now comes the exercise. Allow yourself discomfort. Allow yourself to feel. Allow yourself freedom to be free.” Drawing his wand out of his sleeve, Sibanyoni pressed the air with his wand, murmuring something in another language. 

An alpaca appeared in the room between them, standing on Sibanyoni’s carpet. Something about the alpaca made Harry feel afraid Sibanyoni had Summoned a real alpaca, which was worrisome, because what would the poor thing think? But the alpaca did not seem perturbed by its surroundings; it just stood there with its large, well lashed eyes and its crooked mouth, which was curled into an amusing expression.

“This alpaca is Vinicius,” Sibanyoni said. “Say to it what you would say to him.”

_I don’t have anything to say to him!_ Harry wanted to blurt, because there was an alpaca standing in Sibanyoni’s office. Harry wondered whether this was why he needed therapy. Would a healthy person shout at an alpaca? A healthy person wouldn’t need an alpaca; maybe Harry really _wasn’t_ in touch with his feelings; maybe a healthy person would be upset that Vinicius had left him. 

Kavika had done exercises with him. _Imagine the thing that you are dreading happens_ , she had told him _and imagine how it makes you feel._ Harry had never thought to dread an alpaca in a therapist’s office.

“Take your time.” Sibanyoni sipped his Coke. “Let it come. Let it speak to you. What does it say?”

_That it wants to eat some grass?_ Harry stared at the alpaca, realizing this would probably really work for Luna. Luna was better at using her imagination; it would probably work for Penelope, too. Penelope always wanted someone to talk to; it wouldn’t matter if it was an alpaca. And alpaca would probably work better for her than a person on her own imagination; she would have an easier time with someone to listen who couldn’t respond with human feelings. Even George might like a therapist alpaca. He never took anything seriously; perhaps having an alpaca to talk to would be ridiculous enough that he could remove himself from the truth of what he was saying for long enough to believe it was a joke.

“I don’t think this is working,” Harry said finally. 

“All right,” Sibanyoni said easily. “Okay.” He snapped his fingers, and the alpaca disappeared. “It’s not for everyone. First try.” He took another sip of Coke. “How do you feel about Legilimens, then? The dream state? The sharing of the mind?”

“Not great,” Harry said.

“All right,” Sibanyoni said again, his tone exactly the same. “Okay. Too intimate. Too invasive. Too woo-woo.” He waggled his fingers, demonstrating woo-woo. “Not all things are for everyone.”

“I just had some bad experiences with Legilimens,” Harry said. “When I was a child.”

“All right!” Sibanyoni’s eyes widened, the tone climbing now to a note of success, of revelation. “Okay! Bad things. Bad things at Hogwarts, in your childhood. We don’t have to go there. Leave it behind. Talk about it, but leave it behind. I have other exercises, plenty of other exercises; we can go through; you can say what you like, what sparks your interest. You don’t have to do anything you don’t like, nothing too new; that’s all right.”

Harry took a breath. “Actually . . . I’m not sure . . . ‘exercises’ really work for me. Kavika and I—we usually just talked.”

Blinking, Sibanyoni put down his Coke. “Tell you what,” he began, then picked up his Coke. He put it down again. “Tell you what,” he said again, “I’ve got the perfect exercise, can’t be beat. Absolutely your cuppa, just what you’re looking for. Her name is Marie Leblanc. Old colleague of mine, more your style.”

“Er,” Harry said. “You mean a different therapist?”

“I mean a different therapist.” Sibanyoni’s eyes twinkled, and he picked up his Coke again, finally taking another sip.

Harry felt a little badly.

“Don’t feel badly.” Sibanyoni’s voice was kind. “We work differently. Different things, different people. Marie reminds me of your Kavika, more your style. I’m particular. Everyone’s particular. You can always try new things.”

“Thanks,” Harry said.

“I’ll write down the address. Outside of Paris. Perfect. It will be perfect for you.”

Once Sibanyoni had given him the address, Harry went home and wrote an owl to Marie Leblanc directly. Only after that did he discover his mistake, for now he had nothing to do: no tasks. No company. Nothing immediately pressing. No one who needed him. Nothing but an unsatisfactory session of therapy to reflect upon, and maybe he did feel more than relief that he and Vinicius had broken up. Perhaps he felt regret. Was this regret?

An emptiness opened up inside of Harry, yawning and vast, and he knew this feeling. He recognized this feeling. He should have prepared for this feeling. It was the feeling that came after finishing something and having nothing left, that came from expecting something and not having it come true. He’d felt it every day, coming home from the Auror Department, that feeling that his life was not what it should be, that he was not helping the people he should be, that nothing was as it should be. 

Nothing was as it should be; why should he expect his own life to be any different? Fudge was Minister for Magic. Teddy was possibly a terrorist. The Board of Regents for Auror Academy was corrupt, and in the end Harry worked for a corrupt institution, and Reveal was going to fail, and non-magicals were going to die; people he loved were going to get hurt, and why hadn’t he done something? Why wasn’t he doing more? Why didn’t he—

The solution for this feeling was to fill it up. _It’s okay to distract yourself_ , Kavika would have said. _In the moment, that’s sometimes all you can do. Just don’t let yourself be distracted to the point where you never take those feelings out and examine them, or else you will find that your entire life is a distraction from the person you want to be._ Harry didn’t know who he wanted to be; he was thirty-seven. He should know by now, but how could he know; why should he know, when Kavika had _left_ him, and it had been so long since he had felt this way. Harry couldn’t remember the last time this had happened.

_Think of your list._ The voice was a little Kavika’s but also a little Harry’s own, the list of people to see when he could not see her. The list of people who could provide _emotional support_ : Ron. Hermione. Could he see them? Did he want to see them, now? These were important questions to ask, because it could happen—it had happened—that he went to them and they were not what he needed, and he could see in their eyes that they wanted to help and could not, could not. What did he want? Who did he want?

Kavika.

But who else? These were important questions to ask. Harry went through the list. Luna, Neville, Molly, Andromeda and Teddy, Hagrid. He had wondered sometimes if he might add Ginny to this list. He wanted her, suddenly, powerfully—someone who had understood him, someone to whom he had been a whole world. Was this because of Vinicius? Harry didn’t know. He should eat something. Maybe he was hungry. Maybe he and Ron and Hermione could have dinner. Maybe they could get takeout. He could get curry. It was eight o’clock. Dinner for the Weasley-Grangers was usually around six-thirty. They would have Hugo. Harry didn’t know if he wanted to see Hugo. Harry didn’t know if he wanted curry. Maybe a pasta. He wanted those quiches Malfoy had brought for him that night they brought the memory to the Department. How had Malfoy known he hadn’t eaten? _Juice,_ Malfoy had said. _Sugar. Hydration._ Maybe Harry should drink something.

The last time this had happened had been recently, actually. Nyala had been facing her Boggart, and Teddy had died. Malfoy had been there. Had Malfoy put his hand on Harry’s shoulder? But no. Malfoy hadn’t touched him. Malfoy never touched him at all, not even a little bit, not since—since before that day in Harry’s office. _When you’re panicking, when you wake up crying, when you’re breaking down,_ Malfoy had said, _there will still be someone who loves you, every fucked up inch of you, for exactly who you are._

Strange, that. Harry had believed him. He’d never even thought about the fact that he believed him, but he had. Likely Malfoy had believed it as well. Harry remembered Malfoy at the holiday party, linking his arm through Rune Photsi’s, the look in Malfoy’s eyes as he had looked at Rune, the warmth, the affection. Strange, how that had all turned out, that Malfoy, who had lived with the Dark Lord and feared his own Mark the most, had found someone to make him happy. Meanwhile Harry had lost his therapist and was having nightmares. 

Maybe Harry could Floo him and ask him where he got his mini quiches. Was that the sort of thing that he could do, now? To someone who had called Hermione what he had, to someone who had tried to kill Dumbledore, to someone who had laughed when Cedric died? Yes. Harry supposed he could. A question about mini quiches was the least Harry could do, after Nyala’s Boggart, though now that Harry thought about it, a question about mini quiches wasn’t really thank you. Had he said thank you? Was saying thank you to Malfoy something he could do?

Harry went to his hearth, opened the pot on the mantel, took out the Floo powder, and threw it in the hearth. “Granger-Weasleys,” he told the green flame, then put his face into it.

“Harry,” said Hermione, sounding for all the world like she had a thousand years to give to him, even though a broom was chasing an owl behind her, and Hugo was yelling.

“Sorry,” Harry said.

“Never mind,” Hermione said. “Hugo was meant to sweep. He thought he could cheat and use his flying broom; it’s frightened Ganymede. “How was your therapy?”

“Can I come over?”

“Of course, you can.”

“Finite Incantatem!” Hugo was shouting, waving his practice wand. “Finite Incantatem! I said stop!”

“The Higgledy Piggledy has a very good icebox lily cucumber sandwich,” Harry said. “I’m going to pick one up—have you lot already eaten?”

“Yes, but when have you started eating anything so posh,” Hermione wanted to know. “I thought you survived on curry.”

“What I really want is quiche,” Harry said, “but I don’t know where to get one.”

The corner of Hermione’s mouth flicked up, like Harry had pressed a switch. “Therapy was terrible, wasn’t it.”

“Yes,” Harry said. 

“Fine,” Hermione said. “Bring your posh nosh. But if you’re getting sandwiches, you might as well get four.”

“Do you really think Ron will want cucumber?”

“Those are all for me,” Hermione explained. “I’ll ask him separately.”

“You’re bringing food?” Hugo poked his head in the Floo.

Harry laughed. The Granger-Weasleys was where he wanted to be after all.

*


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to seraphcelene and icmezzo for writing with me. A thousand thanks to siemejay, who edited and really held my hand through a lot of this.
> 
> Some of you will recognize that a scene in this chapter is inspired by this [art](https://alekina.tumblr.com/post/110998951140/he-wants-to-laugh-at-the-irony-he-really-does-as) by [alekina](https://alekina.tumblr.com/).

*

February rolled into March, and they were experiencing a week that nearly felt like spring when Teddy stayed behind after Sorcery (Ritual, Soul, and Spiritual Magic) to ask about dark sigils. Harry didn’t have to think long to figure it out. “Malfoy didn’t tell you?” Harry asked. “I already told him I’d help him.”

“That’s cool of you,” Teddy said, after a pause.

“I would’ve done it eighth year, if he’d asked,” Harry said. “I’d get rid of the Dark Mark for anyone who asked.”

“He asked?”

“Not exactly,” Harry said.

“Then I guess you’re even cooler.”

“Look,” Harry said, coming out from behind his desk. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever. You’re never at home any more.”

“I’m at home.” Teddy paused. “Not now, obviously. Now I’m here.”

“I just meant . . .” Harry wanted to rub the back of his hand, then didn’t. “I miss you.”

Teddy was nodding again. “Come out to the pub with us.”

Harry hesitated. Since Fudge’s appointment as Minister of Magic in October, a group from Academy had been going to the Higgledy Piggledy every other week or so. As the group was mostly trainees with a few older alumni thrown in, Harry had not joined them, but he knew for a fact some of the other staff and instructors went regularly—Penelope, Gareth. Even Savage, from time to time. “All right,” Harry said, making the decision suddenly.

This was how the evening found him at the Higgledy Piggledy once more, wedged between Fairchild and Mark on one side and Teddy and Nyala on the other. Achar and Adebayo sat across, as well as Adebayo’s girlfriend, and Malfoy sat at the end with Rune Photsi, who was apparently still his boyfriend. Then two more older Aurors joined them, old enough that Harry knew them from working with them, rather than having taught them. “Where’s Astoria?” Mark wanted to know.

“She always comes,” Fairchild added.

“Teddy, do you know where she is?” Nyala asked.

“Do we mean in a spatial sense?” Teddy asked.

“Oi, Draco,” Achar asked, calling down the table. “Where’s your girl, Astoria?” 

Malfoy had been very busy taking Rune’s coat and getting him water and casting little spells to make sure Rune was as comfortable as a king in his chair; he hadn’t been paying attention. “If you expect me to be that one’s keeper,” he said, at last looking away from Rune, “you’ve got another thing coming.”

“This is interesting,” Rune said. “Do you think you could keep me?”

Malfoy’s features immediately softened. His reply was under Mark’s, who was saying, “She’s probably off fighting the revolution herself,” but Harry heard it. “I’d do my best,” Malfoy murmured.

“Here,” said Fairchild, raising her glass. “To Astoria.”

“To Astoria.” Achar also raised her glass. “I think we can all agree she’s probably a terrorist.”

“Here, here,” said Adebayo’s girlfriend, whose name Harry still didn’t know.

“Astoria is not a terrorist.” Malfoy’s voice was sharp and completely different from before.

“Cheer up, mate,” said Achar. “She’s on our side.”

“She would fight in a war,” Malfoy said. “She would never start one.”

“But she’s literally said she would?” said Adebayo’s girlfriend. “She’s literally said the Deal is a compromise built to maintain the separation between pure-blood and not, and we should tear down the wards and all and make the magical world start over?”

Malfoy reared back, but he went still when Rune put his hand on Malfoy’s arm. “Terrorism is not the same as protest. And terrorists aren’t the same as soldiers.”

“What’s the difference, exactly?” asked Adebayo’s girlfriend.

Rune went on to answer, and Malfoy, blinking, looked down. Then, noticing that Rune’s water was only half full, he quickly cast an Aguamenti to fill it up again, tapping it again to make it ice cold. This was a good idea, for though tonight the pub was not as full as the night of Fudge’s appointment, it still felt close and crowded. Harry could feel sweat begin at the back of his neck.

“I’ll be back,” Malfoy told Rune, as Harry got out his own wand to cool down his water. Malfoy’s voice was low, but Teddy and Nyala were so quiet beside Harry that Malfoy’s voice carried to him. Then Malfoy was standing, and Harry remembered the little breeze Malfoy had cast on him that night in October—half a year ago, now. 

Rune was explaining rather eloquently what he thought of as the difference between terrorism, protest, and war, as well as the merits and detriments of each. Harry wondered whether Rune had a little breeze, and then Malfoy was returning, setting down a fresh, crisp-looking salad in front of Rune, as well as a liverwort lemonade.

Harry turned to Teddy and Nyala. “You’re very quiet,” he said, underneath one of the older Aurors, who had taken up the thread of Rune’s conversation.

“Usually you can’t shut me up,” Teddy said.

“Shut up,” Nyala said, slapping his arm. “We’re the neutral observers.”

“Neutral?” Harry’s voice was sceptical. “Really?”

“No. Just, what’s the use of talking?”

“So, do you favour the terrorist angle, or the protest?” Harry asked.

“They’re not talking about the important thing,” Nyala said, “which is legislation.”

“Hello, Hermione.” Harry finished the water he had cooled, then turned back to Teddy. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you think the most important thing is?”

“Everything,” Teddy said.

“What do you mean?”

“Terrorism can call attention to a cause,” Teddy said. “When people protest for a cause, it’s a movement. Movements create legislation. And when that fails, there’s war.”

“But violence isn’t a necessity,” said Nyala. “If enough people care, you can have a movement anyway.”

Teddy didn’t say anything, and Harry bit the inside of his cheek. Adebayo, Fairchild, and Mark were arguing about whether the people dropping the wards were really terrorists. One of the older Aurors and Adebayo’s girlfriend had gone up to the bar; the second Auror, Malfoy, and Rune were all talking about Fudge’s new efforts to completely obliterate any sort of Deal. Drawing his wand, Harry turned to fill up his glass of water, only to find his glass completely full, the water ice cold. Jerking his head up, Harry looked at Malfoy, who wasn’t paying any attention, all of his intense gazes and soft expressions just for Rune.

“I’ve got to go.” Teddy’s voice was quiet.

“What?” said Nyala, as Harry turned back to them. 

Teddy was already standing up, slipping something into his pocket. His usual excuse for all his disappearances was that he was going off to see friends, but his friends were here, all still talking and laughing. They hadn’t heard Teddy’s soft announcement; they probably assumed he was going to the loo.

“Where are you going?” Harry said.

“I’m needed,” said Teddy, turning away.

“But where?” Nyala said, getting up from her chair.

“Teddy.” Harry stood as well, but Teddy was already heading for the door.

“I’ll see you both tomorrow at Academy.” Then Teddy was opening the door, Nyala rushing after him.

Harry started after him as well, but what could he do? Force a Side-Along when Teddy Apparated? That would be inappropriate, unfair, and yet his feet were taking him toward the door regardless. Then he was outside, and Teddy was disappearing, Nyala with him. Though the sun had been out that day, the night was cool and sharp and dark.

The pub grew louder behind Harry, then softer, then footsteps. A voice. “You don’t know where he goes either, then.”

“No,” Harry said.

“I thought, perhaps, he wanted distance. From me.” Malfoy came to stand beside him on the kerb. “That I wanted too much, too fast. Cousins. Lost family. That rot.” 

Harry turned to him. “Teddy adores you.”

Malfoy blushed, but he didn’t look away. His eyes held Harry’s, steady and unnervingly silver in the low light.

Harry watched the blush fade, then said, “I thought he preferred you.” He waited as confusion clouded Malfoy’s face. “I thought it was rebellion, maybe, or what I said about the Force. And then he found someone—someone like a godfather, but who hadn’t been there to raise him, to disappoint him—”

“Come off it,” Malfoy said quietly. “You’ve never disappointed anyone ever in your life, Harry. Least of all Teddy Lupin.”

“I’ve disappointed people.”

“Of course, you have. But when it mattered?” Malfoy arched a brow, and Harry thought off people he could have helped, and hadn’t. “If you say your own godfather, or Dumbledore, or any of those people,” Malfoy added, “I’ll call you a liar.”

“‘Any of those people.’ Do you mean any of the ones I’ve disappointed?”

“Liar.” Malfoy put his hands in his pockets. “And don’t say you’ve disappointed yourself, either. That doesn’t count.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Weren’t you?”

Unsure whether to seriously consider this question, Harry gazed off into the space that Teddy and Nyala had last occupied, as though somehow, magically, the emptiness would tell him where they had gone. It actually could—there were certain tracking spells that Harry could employ—and yet, Teddy was nineteen. Old enough to do what he wanted, young enough to need to exert independence while doing it. “I don’t know what to do,” Harry heard himself say. “I can’t tell what he’s getting into.”

“I’m terrified Astoria’s a terrorist,” Malfoy blurted, and Harry swung around to look at him.

Malfoy looked open and so honest. “I don’t know where she goes anymore,” Malfoy went on. “We used to tell each other everything, and now . . . since Fudge. She’s angry, and it’s my fault. After what happened. And it happened to me! I was the one her father cast out.”

“You didn’t think that could hurt her?” Harry asked. “Seeing her father hurt someone she loves?”

Malfoy’s gaze passed into thoughtfulness, but something about this expression was almost tender, and he was still looking at Harry.

Harry turned away. “Why did you come out here?” This wasn’t the question he wanted. _Why did you refill my water?_ That wasn’t the question he wanted to ask either.

“Teddy is my friend,” Malfoy said simply.

“Right.” For a moment, Harry had forgot.

“I’m keeping my eye on him,” Malfoy went on, “as well as I can do. I don’t mean tracking spells or anything. Yes, I paid attention in Magical Ethics. I just meant, if I catch wind of where he’s gone, I’ll let you know, yeah?”

“Yes.” Harry turned back to him. “Thank you. I’ll do the same for you.”

Malfoy’s mouth turned into a small, surprised smile, gentle in a way that did a kindness to his face. Then he looked back toward the pub. “I had better get back.”

Rune might need leg space, or a jacket, or a little breeze. “Of course,” Harry said.

The gentle smile lingered, then Malfoy turned back and went into the pub.

*

Doctor Marie Leblanc’s office was in a tiny wizarding hamlet a little ways north of Paris, on the river. The portkey took Harry to a cobblestone street outside of a quaint whitewashed row of shops, which looked like they should have thatched roofs but instead all had shingles. “I don’t have a waiting room,” Doctor Leblanc had explained, apologetically, “and I dislike to give a portkey directly to my parlour, in case I am in session. However, there is a delightful café across the street; if you come early you can have a tea or coffee.”

Harry had not arrived early enough to try the delightful little café, but Doctor Leblanc had said she liked to spend the first few sessions just getting to know someone, and so the session had been short. For the most part, it had gone well, though it hadn’t been terribly instructive. Cautiously optimistic, Harry had decided to try the little café. The weather had that clean spring taste that meant daffodils, and the café had a table by the window. From there he could see Doctor Leblanc’s sweet little garden and tall blue door, as well as the picturesque lane, the chestnut at the end of it, and a haphazard wizard tower that rather reminded Harry of the Burrow.

The coffee was good, and Harry had just ordered a second espresso when a figure appeared in the middle of the cobblestone lane. Harry did not have time to consider that this figure was just someone who was using another portkey, because the figure was Malfoy—the early spring sun touching his hair, bathing his face with pale gold. He wore a delicate blouse-y blue thing that was neatly tucked into denims, and in that moment, Harry was convinced that Malfoy was still obsessed with him, and that he was being followed.

But Malfoy didn’t even look toward the café, instead tapping the gate to Doctor Leblanc’s garden with his wand, and walking down the garden path toward the blue door. Then it occurred to Harry that Malfoy knew Doctor Leblanc somehow—was Doctor Leblanc sharing information about Harry? But no, that was paranoid, and ridiculous, and had more to do with Harry’s nightmares of people harming those he loved than what Harry knew of Malfoy’s character, or even of Leblanc, for that matter. Then it occurred to Harry that Malfoy and Leblanc were lovers—but Malfoy was gay; stranger things had happened—

After three minutes of stunned confusion, the obvious occurred to Harry: that Malfoy was getting therapy, that Malfoy was Leblanc’s patient, and that Harry was never, ever going to use Doctor Leblanc as his therapist ever, not if she was seeing Malfoy. Something about it was just too strange. 

Leaving the rest of his espresso, Harry Apparated away and never went back.

*

Hermione lay sprawled on the floor, her hair spread like a wave. Ron was crumpled nearby.

 _This is a dream_ , Harry told himself.

“I know it looks like a dream,” Dumbledore said sadly, “but just because you dream it often doesn’t mean it won’t come true.”

Disbelieving, Harry looked at their dead bodies. “But how did it happen?”

“Don’t you remember?” Dumbledore asked, and Harry did remember. Voldemort—no, Death Eaters—no, it had been someone they knew, a friend—someone had split pieces of their soul, long ago, and planted them inside of Ron and Hermione. Eventually, those pieces of soul had found their way out.

“No,” Harry said, “because you’re dead.”

“He failed,” Dumbledore said, and Harry remembered Malfoy, shaking as he faced Dumbledore on the Tower. The memory faded, and Dumbledore vanished.

Relieved, Malfoy put away his wand, then turned and faced Harry. “What are you so broken up about?” 

“My friends,” Harry said, sweeping his hand over the scene.

“Who?” Malfoy frowned down at Ron and Hermione’s dead bodies, and then, recognizing them, began to stifle a laugh. Soon he was guffawing.

“It’s not funny!” yelled Harry, who was eleven.

“It’s hilarious, Potter. Do you think a Mudblood deserves to live?”

“Ron’s a pure-blood,” said Harry, a non-sensical argument.

Malfoy laughed even harder. “Our society is well rid of him.”

“They were my parents,” Harry yelled.

“Poor little orphan Potty. If only you knew.”

Out of the shadows, Voldemort melted into a full form, half the man who had been Tom Riddle, half something else. Long, bony fingers settled on Malfoy’s shoulder, and the hooded face looked down at the dead bodies. “Well done, Son of Lucius,” Voldemort rasped.

Malfoy straightened his shoulders. “I’ll do what needs must.”

“Kill the spare,” said Voldemort, the other arm slowly rising, trailing shadow, the thin white finger unfurling, pointing over Harry’s left shoulder.

Harry whirled, and behind him stood Teddy, his hair green, his suit green, the light of Avada Kedavra in his eyes, green.

Gasping, Harry opened his eyes. 

All of his muscles were tensed in anticipatory dread, his bed drenched in sweat. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Gasping, he tried to throw the covers back, fighting with them, forgetting before he found his wand and Banished them. “Lumos,” he demanded, clapping his hand over his glasses, shoving them onto his face. “Accio glass. Aguamenti,” he added, once the glass was almost in his hand, and he could aim the water into it. He brought the glass up to his lips while his wand was still spurting. He should have cast Malfoy’s ice water spell.

Fuck.

Fuck. “Time.”

“Four-oh-eight in the morning,” said the soft low voice of the magic clock.

Four-oh-eight. Too late to take Sweet Dreams. He should have taken it last night. He’d discovered it years ago, finding that it was infinitely better than Dreamless Sleep, which made him feel like death in the morning. Working for both insomnia and nightmares, Sweet Dreams had been a staple in Harry’s nightly rituals for at least a year before he began easing off of it, as it had side effects he didn’t want to deal with. These days, he only took it when he was having trouble getting to sleep. 

That had been a lot, lately. Harry wondered whether Malfoy knew about Sweet Dreams.

Getting up from the bed, Harry spelled it dry, then clean. He didn’t want to be in it anymore. He didn’t want to be anywhere anymore. He didn’t want to be alive anymore; he didn’t want to be alone. Four-oh-eight. Who could he go to at four-oh-eight in the morning?

Going to the loo, he washed his hand. Then his face. Cleaning spells were fine, but feeling the water felt nice. He could take a shower. He could scrub it off. He could scrub his skin until it was red, and then it would all come off; he should scrub his skin off; he could scrub his _brain_ out; a shower might not be a good idea. Did he want a shower? _Picture yourself in the situation,_ Kavika would say. 

Harry pictured himself, naked under the stream, nothing to look at. Nothing to do. Nothing to think about but himself, four-oh-eight in the morning. He was too tired to take a shower anyway.

He could go to Ron and Hermione, obviously. They were getting precious little sleep these days, with Hermione in the Council, and Ron dealing with the pressure on the Force. He shouldn’t bother them—though he was allowed to bother them. They would want him to bother them. They had made that clear; they had given him the locket. Harry touched it. He didn’t want to bother them. 

Molly was often up at ungodly hours of the morning. He could go to her and have a cuppa. She would be glad to see him. But at four-oh-eight? “Time,” Harry said, because maybe it was five.

“Four-twelve in the morning,” said the clock, pleasantly.

Harry closed his eyes. He should occupy himself. He needed an occupation. Something to fill his brain. Something that wouldn’t allow him to think freely, but would force him to think _enough,_ so that he wouldn’t think about other things. Exercising didn’t help; he thought too much when he exercised—though sometimes he went on a run. At four-twelve?

He went to the parlour, throwing himself into a chair in front of the fire. Took out his wand, starting playing the games Kavika had taught him, little spells to make light catch each other. This distracted him for a little while, but by the time the clock said, “Four-forty-two,” he was growing bored. Still too early to go to work. Too early to see Molly?

 _Think of a problem to solve._ The problem, of course, was nightmares. Standing, Harry went to the table near the door, rifling through the junk on it. He didn’t have good systems for keeping things sorted. Maybe he should come up with a system; maybe that was the problem? But he had already thought of the problem; it was here, the square of parchment. 

Going back to the chair, Harry sank into it again, unfolding the square. _Scar/burn_ potion was crossed out. _Bone binding? Fear binding? Possession?_ remained. Harry had been thinking about it. He’d done some research. No one had ever tried to remove a Dark Mark before—not to his knowledge. Not before Malfoy.

Malfoy.

 _No one should have to live with Voldemort’s enslavement on their skin,_ Harry had told him.

Malfoy had looked at Harry’s scar. _You do._

Harry had once tried to kill himself. He hadn’t done it in the best way possible. Or maybe he had, given that it hadn’t worked. Casting Avada Kedavra on yourself was always tricky; you had to mean it. 

Afterwards, Kavika had done Legilimens with him, the mental exercises. Harry had been afraid a part of Voldemort’s soul was still stuck in him, but that wasn’t the case. _Your own soul remembers the place where he was_ , Kavika had said. _Your thoughts and memories clutch around an empty space._ She had helped him find those memories, those thoughts. Together, they had looked at them one by one. Harry had gradually filled that empty space.

Harry looked down at the parchment once more. Voldemort had put the Horcrux inside of him when he was a baby, and it had remained inside of Harry for seventeen years because it was a part of Voldemort’s soul. 

The Dark Mark couldn’t be a Horcrux, however. For Voldemort to split his soul into that many pieces would have been impossible; he would have become too unstable. The binding spells wouldn’t be able to hold on to such small slivers. Harry thought of what he would do, if he was Voldemort. 

He wouldn’t use his own soul. 

Why sacrifice himself, if he could sacrifice others?

But no. If Voldemort had bound a human to a Dark Mark, then killed the human, the life magic of the human could be channelled to reinforce the permanence of the Mark, but Harry didn’t see Voldemort doing that. The power created by death—the release of life magic—was strong enough to defy death. It had raised armies. It could even raise the dead; by some accounts, Inferii could be raised through human sacrifice. One could use human sacrifice to seal a ward or sigil, but to use it for Dark Marks would be inefficient, and Voldemort was someone who loved pageantry and ritual. Salazar had first sealed the Chamber of Secrets with human sacrifice; Voldemort wouldn’t waste it on a Death Mark.

Animal sacrifice, on the other hand . . .

Standing up, Harry rummaged about. Though he had never been very scholarly, his experience—and the innate proficiency the Horcrux within him had once given him—meant that he knew a lot more about Dark Arts than most. Harry found a quill, a cloth, charcoal, a candle stub, a knife, sterilizing alcohol. This would take some work to figure out, some experimentation. Harry was sure he could figure it out. 

A few hours passed. Eventually, it was late enough that he could go to work without it making him feel like a crazy person. He waited in his office. Malfoy didn’t come to bring him coffee.

Malfoy did that less these days. He still did it. The coffee was always good, always hot, always how Harry liked it, even though sometimes Malfoy tried different things—a sprinkle of nutmeg, a little vanilla. Once, the distinct taste of chocolate. It was nice.

Harry had slept so little that he found he needed the coffee, so he walked back out to go to one of the nearby cafés. He always went to La Reve these days, since he was pretty sure that was where Malfoy went, and Harry had since got used to it. The walk was nice, invigorating. When he came back, he passed through the green, by the Timothy Tree, where Malfoy always used to sit. 

Malfoy sat there less these days as well. He was always with someone—Teddy, Nyala. Penelope. Gareth. Harry didn’t really know when Malfoy had found the time to make friends with the groundskeeper. Malfoy was probably Spragg’s best friend. Even Savage didn’t mind Malfoy. Rune was quite obviously delighted by him.

On that morning, Harry didn’t see Malfoy until Combat I. As exams were in a month, they were mostly duelling these days, and everyone was on edge, hoping to get as much practice in as possible. Harry wasn’t early, banging in exactly at ten after his walk. Given that it was unexpectedly sunny, he was also overheated; he stripped down to his vest so they could get started straight away. Without thinking about it, Harry glanced at Malfoy, vaguely remembering a time when taking off his shirt had made Malfoy go stuttering and speechless. 

Malfoy wasn’t even looking. He was already talking to Nyala, his smile sunny, tipping his head back to laugh about the fact that they had taken stances standing far too close together. 

Good.

Class began. Everyone was doing an excellent job, though McDevitt was still struggling with rearmament. The Combat class began with magic duelling, then moved into wandless hand-to-hand. In January, they began working on the wandless spell to regain a wand; the course had a focus on gaining control of your own and your opponent’s wand. It was more important than most people realized, and Harry stopped to help McDevitt and his partner.

When he looked up, Liang and Abbott had stopped and were arguing. Liang needed to practice her holds, but Malfoy and Nyala had just finished a bout, and Malfoy said something to Liang. Both Liang and Vigil turned, and Malfoy went over to them, which was perfect. Malfoy already knew everything anyway. Harry went back to McDevitt.

When Harry looked up again, Goldstein and Pomfrey had also stopped, moving to watch the holds Malfoy was demonstrating for Liang with Abbott. Harry let it happen. Malfoy was good at this, and always so gentle with the younger trainees. At last, McDevitt wanted to try it himself, and Harry left him to it.

By now, Finnigan and Ha had also stopped their sparring, but while Ha was actually paying attention, Finnigan was just staring at Malfoy. Because Harry had thought about it earlier, he recognized the expression. Malfoy hadn’t even needed to take off his shirt—though the fact that his vest appeared to be the entirety of his upper body-wear today possibly didn’t hurt. 

Harry supposed that if you were a teenage boy, a tall gay man being extremely competent with his body might be appealing somehow. Fleur had said that Malfoy was well-made. Harry turned to look at Malfoy as well.

Perhaps he was, in a way, well-made. The vest was white, which made his skin look less paste-like for once and rather more like pale butter. The vest was also thin, the hem having come loose at the bottom, as though it had been worn many times. Perhaps announcing he was gay meant that Malfoy no longer thought he needed proper clothes. Harry went over there.

“Want my job?” Harry asked, once Malfoy was done with his demonstration.

Malfoy looked surprised to see him, then pleased. “Do they hire blokes who can’t pass Level One?”

“You’ll have to ask.”

Malfoy began to smile. Harry began to reach for the back of his other hand. Trainees began to ask questions.

“Would they really keep you from passing this year?” one of them asked.

“Can they do that?” asked another.

“Is it because of Fudge?”

Harry began, “Q and A with Malfoy later—”

“Thanks,” muttered Malfoy.

“—sparring now,” Harry finished.

“Spar Malfoy,” suggested one of the trainees. Harry would have suspected Finnigan, but his eyes were too large and luminous for his mouth to take up any space. It hadn’t been Nyala, but she was just looking at him with a quirked brow.

“I’ve sparred Malfoy,” Harry said.

“Not for real,” Malfoy said, and Harry turned back to him. Malfoy looked at him innocently, then raised a brow of his own. His voice was playful. “Chicken, Potter?” 

For a second Harry remembered the child Malfoy had been and resented him thoroughly, but then the moment fell away. Huffing a sigh, Harry acquiesced. “This is a demonstration,” he explained to the trainees. “Malfoy is one of the best I’ve trained. We’re going to go through everything we’ve learned,” he added, turning back to Malfoy, who—inevitably—was blushing. The stain of it spilled all the way down his throat. “Take note of each technique you see, and how you might apply it in your own combat. Ready, Malfoy?”

Malfoy tossed his head. “I’m always ready.”

“Are you sure?” Harry remembered a time he had attempted a demonstration of hand-to-hand with Malfoy, and Malfoy had been nothing but uncomfortable.

Seeming to sense the gravity in his tone, Malfoy nodded. “Yes, Instructor.”

“Good.” Harry turned to the trainees. “Clear the mat. Liang, want to count us down?”

Looking quite excited, Liang nodded, causing her fringe to swish. “Three,” she said breathlessly. “Two!” Malfoy took his stance. “One!”

The first spells were exactly what Harry had taught, a standard exchange of attempts to disarm or disable, blocked by typical shield spells and counter-attacks. Then Harry got an Expelliarmus in, and remembered that this was why he still had control of the Elder Wand. That was enough distraction for Malfoy to use the hand-to-hand trick Harry had taught them well—Malfoy grabbing Harry’s wrist and jerking forward, turning as he did it, so that his body slid along Harry’s and behind. 

Malfoy’s other arm came up around Harry’s neck, the hand still holding Harry’s wrist twisting to make Harry lose his grip on the two wands—which succeeded, since the pressure on Harry’s windpipe meant he couldn’t speak. The wand was useless; he had to focus on getting out of the hold—which he did, crouching down and using the leverage to flip Malfoy over him. Malfoy rolled out of the throw gracefully, reaching for one of the wands as he did so.

“Expelliarmus,” Harry shouted, the only wandless spell he had taught the class besides _Accio wand._

The wand flew out of Malfoy’s grip, but he was rushing to knock it from Harry’s own before Harry could fully catch it. Malfoy slid down, his leg sweeping out to knock down Harry as he tried to recover from Malfoy’s rush, but Harry expected this. He had taught them this, and yet then _something_ happened—a muttered, “Prostratus,” a swift force against Harry’s shoulders. Then his legs went out from under him; he was on the floor, and Malfoy was scrambling on top of him, pinning him.

Harry blinked.

Malfoy grinned in triumph.

The trainees were going wild.

“That was dirty,” Harry pointed out.

Malfoy’s smile widened, so bright and happy it transformed his whole face. He was pink with exertion. “It’s your trick,” he said, easing off of him.

“In Level Two.”

Malfoy extended a hand, and Harry took it, surprised at the sudden strength that hauled him to his feet, the warmth of Malfoy’s hand. “If you think I haven’t learned all Level Two has to teach in the three years I’ve been here, just wait until I’ve been here seven.” Malfoy let him go.

Harry turned to the trainees, who were still bubbling with excitement. “Malfoy’s just given you a preview of the things you’ll learn next year if you pass your courses this year,” Harry told them.

The trainees cheered and wanted to ask questions. Calming them down after that episode was rather difficult, but the idea that they might one day be able to beat Harry Potter in a duel energized them, and eventually, they went back to work. “You’re not afraid?” Finnigan asked Nyala, his voice wondering.

“Of what?” she wanted to know.

“Sparring with Draco Malfoy.” Finnigan looked at Malfoy, awed. “He bested Harry Potter.”

“Yeah,” Nyala agreed, “but he’s a dirty rotten cheat. That’s something you learn in Slytherin. I can handle it.”

After class, Harry called out to Malfoy to ask him to stay. “Want to undermine my victory, Potter?” Malfoy said brightly, walking toward Harry with a spring in his step. “Claim you weren’t really trying?”

“I was trying,” Harry said. “You beat me fair and square.”

The teasing left Malfoy’s face instantly, replaced by a blush, and Harry wondered at how many times he could get Malfoy to change colour in a conversation, even with Malfoy no longer being in love with him. “It wasn’t fair, exactly,” Malfoy said, his voice light and quick. “If you had expected that I would use wandless magic—I’m sure you would have been prepared for it.”

“Perhaps.”

Malfoy bit his lip, flushed and still a little sweaty from class. His shirt stuck to him in odd places.

“Here,” Harry said, turning from him to rummage on the desk. “I brought this for you.” Turning back to Malfoy, Harry held out a bottle of liquid.

Without hesitating, Malfoy took it, turning over the bottle in his hands. 

“It’s called Sweet Dreams.”

Malfoy looked up at him in confusion.

“For your problems sleeping,” Harry explained. “I found out about it a while ago. Most people just take Dreamless, but I found this makes me feel better the next morning.”

“How long is ‘a while ago’?”

“What?”

Malfoy’s eyes were very open, his expression blank. “When did you find out about this?” He hefted the little bottle.

“A few years ago,” Harry said, beginning to feel uncomfortable. “I just—I didn’t think to mention it to you. When you said you had trouble sleeping. It just . . . occurred to me last night.”

Malfoy had been looking at the bottle, but his head jerked up at this. He still didn’t say anything, but his eyes had melted into a soft misty morning grey.

“I just thought you could try it,” Harry said, feeling almost as though he had done something wrong.

Malfoy swallowed. “Thank you.”

 _Don’t cry,_ Harry thought, horrified, but Malfoy wasn’t crying. He was standing in his sticky shirt, looking down at the bottle of pink liquid. Harry had been going to update Malfoy on his thoughts about the Dark Mark, but with Malfoy acting like this, Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to. Harry was still experimenting, and it could be cruel to give Malfoy hope if Harry’s ideas weren’t going to work. Best to wait a little while.

“All right, then,” Harry said, hesitating. “Good luck with . . . classes.”

“I—yes. Potter. Thank you.”

Malfoy didn’t look up at him, and Harry left him there, staring down at the bottle in his hands.

*

The next morning, Harry didn’t find coffee waiting on his desk. Instead, he found a wooden box, finely carved, but simple, beautiful. In it were at least ten different phials in various shades of aqua and green, two packets of light blue powder, a box of tea bags, and a sachet with some herb Harry had never smelled before. Atop all these was folded parchment, which—when Harry unfolded it—turned out to be at least five pages of small, neat script.

“Potter,” read the first page, at the very top.

“Thank you for your gift of the Sweet Dreams. I did not adequately express my gratitude for your thoughtfulness, as I was distracted by a myriad of considerations. One such is the thought that I have known about Sweet Dreams since I was fifteen, and it seems you have not. I found myself wishing, once more, most keenly, that I had sought to know you better then, when I was fifteen; that I had sought to help you, rather than hinder you and hurt you and humiliate you. Would that I had been a better person for your sake, if not my own.

“Enough of my remorse. I only wished to express my gratitude, as what comes next may seem ungrateful. I also don’t want to seem as though I had any kind of authority to advise or counsel you, but I feel concern for you, if Sweet Dreams is your only sleep remedy; I wonder if you have been adequately apprised of its side effects? Please ignore if the information I offer is know to you and therefore redundant. One side effect is the opposite of the symptom the potion is meant to alleviate; ie, it may result in nightmares. Another side effect—”

Harry skipped down, wondering if Malfoy really had written him five pages of warnings about Sweet Dreams, which Harry already knew. 

“I don’t mean to lecture,” the letter went on, “only to provide context for the gift of this small chest, which contains various sleep remedies I have used over years of experience, research, and potions tinkering. I hope you don’t think me presumptuous in sharing such things. Please do not feel obliged to make use of these tinctures if they do not appeal. Perhaps you have tried them and find them useless; perhaps Sweet Dreams works perfectly for you and you have not experienced any of the side effects. I do not mean to claim my only remedies are superior; I only want you to be rested and well and happy. I only aspire to be useful to you. 

“Here follows descriptions of each remedy:

“Ameles. Use sparingly, never more than once per month. More effective when the moon is waning. Unlike Sweet Dreams, does not take hours to work; will drop you instantly, but do beware that, rather like Dreamless, the sleep is not of high quality. Unlike Dreamless, allows precision in timing—one drop equals approximately fifteen minutes of slumber. Also unlike Dreamless, you do not feel forced awake when wears off; if still sleepy, one may sleep another good eight hours with Ameles only fuelling the first fifteen minutes. Do beware of—”

The letter went on like this, and on, and on, each of the remedies listed in alphabetical order. Harry skipped through the pages to the end, wondering if Malfoy had written anything other than an instruction manual. The list ended on the fifth page, with only one paragraph above Malfoy’s large, swirly “D.M.”

“I know that this communication is extensive, too much so, but I have considerable experience in this area. Given your late discovery of Sweet Dreams, I thought perhaps you had not had the opportunity to make further such discoveries, but forgive me again if I presume. I would be happy to meet in person to discuss any questions; I do not expect you to read this whole thing. Forgive me. Thank you again for the Sweet Dreams. I am honoured beyond measure that you thought of me, that you think of me at all. I want you to sleep beautifully; I want your dreams to be all the good things you deserve. I’m sorry this is so long; forgive me; it is late. Thank you for you helping me always.

“Obligingly, &c., &c.—”

*

Rainy April extended into the longer days of May. Harry was glad of shorter evenings, which meant less time tossing and turning, trying to find sleep. It felt more respectable coming to work with the dawn rather than before it, and the final week of exams found him in his office before the campus was swarmed with trainees. 

That morning he spent the morning time skimming through his notes about the Dark Mark. One of the only things he missed about being an Auror were the puzzles, for while Hermione had been better at solving them, Harry had exceled at pursuing them. He had difficulty letting go; it had led him down many dark paths as both a student of Hogwarts and an Auror in the Ministry, but that had not changed his essential nature. When presented with something that seemed wrong, Harry found that very few things could distract him until he set it right.

Harry had just set down his notes, picking up his wand to try a new experiment, when something caught the corner of his eye—a flash of silver. It flashed again, then moved closer, a shimmering little cloud at last near enough to identify: an insect. Specifically, a round, fuzzy insect, with wings that barely seemed big enough to carry its plump little body—a bumblebee, in everything but colour. This was because the bumblebee was a Patronus.

Startled, Harry lowered his wand. He didn’t know anyone with a bumblebee Patronus, and then the bumblebee began to talk in the voice of its owner. “I found out where Teddy’s been. He’s in Diagon, by Fortesque; the wards have dropped; please come.”

“Malfoy?” Harry said, uncomprehendingly.

“Yes, it’s me; please come; something is wrong; I think there’s—”

Malfoy’s voice cut off, and the silver bumblebee disappeared. Standing, Harry grabbed his broom, zoomed out the window, and Apparated as soon as he was past the Pallas Arch.

Diagon was in chaos. A non-mag automobile had crashed into the Leaky; a non-mag stood in front of Flourish and Blotts in a full-body bind while another non-mag shook her, screaming at her to wake up. The sound of shouting duels filled the air, bats from a Bag Bogey Hex; something was on fire. Fenrir was standing on the kerb.

Still on his broom, Harry drew his wand.

Someone grabbed his arm. 

Whirling, Harry began, “Petrificus—”

“It’s Teddy,” Malfoy said, and Harry looked down again.

Fenrir was casting Finite Incantatem on the woman in a full-body bind, attempting to explain what had happened to the man screaming at her.

“You’re not one of us!” a woman shouted, Apparating directly in front of Teddy. “Avada—”

“Expelliarmus,” Harry said, then aimed down with his broom. “Stupefy,” he added, pointing his wand at the woman he had disarmed as he hopped off his broom.

“Thanks,” said Teddy.

“What the hell is going on?” Harry asked, Banishing his broom.

“There.” Melting back into his own form, Teddy nodded across the street, where the real Fenrir was running toward Gringotts. 

“Petrificus Totalus!” The spell missed, and Harry whirled back to Teddy, who was gone. After a moment, Harry spied him in front of Gringotts. Disapparating, Harry caught up to him. “Teddy!”

“They’re the people dropping the wards.” Teddy said, scanning the chaos—presumably looking for Fenrir, but people were everywhere, including zooming on brooms overhead. Someone had got into the store of firecrackers in Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, and people in the air and on the ground were narrowly avoiding explosions.

“Expelliarmus,” Harry told another wizard a few metres away, halfway through casting Cruciatus at a non-mag. Almost simultaneously, a silver shield popped into existence around Teddy and Harry, and an Avada Kedavra bounced off of them. The wand of wizard Harry had just disarmed floated from its owner to Harry, and in the other direction, Harry found Malfoy on his broomstick, who had cast the Protego, now disarming the witch who had cast the AK.

“They’re trying to make Revealers look like dangerous radicals,” Teddy went on, as though just perusing the crowd for his friend at a concert. “Expelliarmus.”

Harry looked over his shoulder at the witch Teddy had disarmed. “Stupefy,” Harry added, dropping the witch in her tracks. “Who is ‘we’ in this situation?” he demanded, turning back to Teddy.

“Astoria, Regina, and I.”

Regina was Fairchild, but—“Astoria?”

A popping sound filled the air, Aurors beginning to fill the street. “He’s going to get away,” Teddy said.

“He’s probably already Disapparated. Teddy, tell me what—”

Teddy was shaking his head, still scanning the street. “I put an anti-Apparition ward on him.”

Shock covered Harry like a bucket of ice water. Teddy had already faced Fenrir? He’d already cast a _spell_ on Fenrir? “Teddy—”

“Help me find him,” Teddy said, “and I’ll explain.”

“Yes.” Harry looked around and found Malfoy, who had lost his broom and was duelling a witch nearby. “Expelliarmus,” Harry told the witch, running toward Malfoy.

“Stupefy,” Malfoy added. The witch’s wand floated into Harry’s hand as the witch fell over. “Where is Teddy?” Malfoy demanded.

“He’s okay. Fenrir is here.”

Malfoy went white, and Harry rushed to add, “Teddy put an anti-Apparate ward on him; they’ve been dropping the wards; we have to find him.”

Malfoy nodded again, sharp, decisive. “Split up—take my Patronus; give Teddy yours; that way we stay in touch. Expecto Patronum!” Silver spooled from Malfoy’s wand, materializing into the tiny bee, but Malfoy was already Apparating to grab a non-mag and Disapparate them out of the way of an exploding Wheeze.

“Expecto Patronum,” Harry said, and the stag spooled out to follow Teddy.

In the end, Teddy was the one to corner Fenrir. He was joined by Ron and Susan Bones, who helped disarm the werewolf and take him into custody. Meanwhile, Malfoy had managed to capture another member of Fenrir’s team, and Ron was furious. “If they had _listened_ to me when I said we needed to go after the ones casting Unforgivables when the wards dropped, we would have caught Fenrir _years_ ago.”

Susan and a few of the others were Apparating their arrests back to the Ministry for holding, and Ron had stayed behind to talk to Teddy. Harry had only just arrived on the scene, sending his Patronus to fetch Malfoy, who arrived a few moments later. “What were you thinking?” Malfoy asked, striding past Ron toward Teddy.

“Hey, Malfoy,” Ron said as Malfoy passed. “I saw you out there. Good show.”

“Auror Weasley.” Malfoy paused. “Very tall, as always.”

Ron, who had shoulders so broad now that everything rolled off them, just smiled. “Thanks,” he said, then moved past Malfoy to Harry. “You all right?”

“Yes,” Harry said, but he still didn’t feel very all right. Seeing Teddy whole and alive was almost too much; he feared to go to him, to touch him, to find out he wasn’t real, that he was mortally wounded, that he would crumple at Harry’s touch. To see Malfoy touch him instead was enough, to see Malfoy reach out his hand, then yank Teddy to him as Harry wanted to hold Teddy to him, to see Malfoy wrap his arms around Teddy and hold him close.

“Hey.” A hand landed on Harry’s shoulder, and then Ron was there.

“Oh God.” Harry felt like he was gasping, but Ron had witnessed something like this before, and just held him, and held him. Harry wished he could bury his face against Ron’s neck and never look at the rest of the world again; he wished he could look at Teddy forever; he wished Hermione was there.

“He’s okay,” Ron said. “They’re both okay.”

“Both.” Harry pulled away, looking around. “Is Astoria here?”

“Astoria?” Ron’s brow furrowed. “Greengrass?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I’m going to kill her.” But he didn’t see her anywhere, and Malfoy had pulled back from Teddy, his hand still at the back of Teddy’s neck, a tender look on his face.

“She was with Fenrir?” asked Ron.

“No,” Harry said. “Worse. She was with Teddy.”

Ron was still frowning. “Whose Patronus is that?”

The little silver bumblebee was hovering around Harry’s left shoulder. “Oh,” Harry said, only half paying attention, because Malfoy and Teddy were coming over to them. “It’s Malfoy’s.”

Ron shot Harry a look Harry didn’t understand, but then Teddy was there, in front of him, and safe.

“Hey,” said Teddy.

“I was worried,” Harry said. 

“I know.”

Unable to stand it any longer, Harry touched him—Teddy’s shoulder, his solid, unhurt shoulder, and then his back, and then Harry was embracing him. 

“Sorry,” Teddy added, then put his arms around Harry. Behind them, Ron seemed to be talking to Malfoy.

At last, Harry pulled away. “What were you thinking?” he asked, before realizing Malfoy had said the exact same thing.

“The Order of the Phoenix.”

“Kingsley is here?” Harry looked around, but they were in a corner of Knockturn Alley, and all he could see were a few Aurors whizzing by on broom above them.

Meanwhile, Teddy was shaking his head. “Not that Order of the Phoenix.”

“What do you mean, ‘not that Order of the Phoenix’?”

“I started one.”

“ _What_?”

Teddy just shrugged. “The ward drops were bollocksing the potential for the Deal. I wanted to unbollocks it.”

“So you decided to duel Fenrir, the infamous Death Eater werewolf?”

“I decided to monitor every ward I knew about,” Teddy said. 

“So if someone began to dismantle them, you would know,” Harry said.

“The Aurors did that,” Ron said, turning from his conversation with Malfoy, “but by the time we got to the site, whoever did it was always gone.”

“Right,” Teddy agreed, “but Astoria has stock in Wardlock Industries. Their monitoring charms are much more advanced than the Ministry’s.”

“Right,” Ron said, glancing at Harry. “Astoria. Harry’s going to kill her.”

“Not if I don’t first.” Malfoy turned to Harry. “That’s how I found the Teddy—I put a tracking spell on her.”

“That’s not exactly legal,” Teddy pointed out.

“The Board doesn’t want me made an Auror,” Malfoy said, his voice that practiced, careless tone. “I might as well turn to a life of petty crime.”

“Cheer up,” Ron said, clapping Malfoy on the back, not very gently. “After another eight to ten years, you might even pass Level One—then who knows? Anyone can be an Auror, if they put their mind to it.”

“I’m not going to,” said Teddy, and they all looked at him.

“Excellent,” Malfoy said. “Astoria will pay for you to record your first album. In fact, she’ll pay for your whole career. Do you want to be one of those touring rockstars that does nothing but OD on Felicis and hot witches, or—”

“Malfoy,” Harry said, because Teddy was twenty but still his godson.

“—do you want to be a classical musician, and OD on nothing but mushrooms and piano strings?”

“I started the Order,” Teddy said. “I’m going to do that.”

“Kingsley already has an Order of the Phoenix,” Harry tried to say, but Teddy was already shaking his head.

“I don’t want to do fundraisers.” Teddy turned to Ron. “And I don’t want to work in a bureaucracy. Sorry.”

“I don’t take offence,” said Ron.

“I’ve been talking to Rune,” Teddy went on.

Malfoy tilted his head at Harry. “You can kill him as well,” he said, but Teddy was shaking his head again.

“Rune didn’t know anything about this,” Teddy said. “He just helped me understand that for Reveal to work, we need something different than the Aurors, or even the Ministry.”

“Like what?” asked Ron, sounding interested.

“Citizens,” said Teddy. “Of the magial world. Just people who want to be there for each other, and want to help.”

“That’s a big undertaking,” Malfoy said, but he sounded interested as well.

“So was the war,” Teddy said. “But this time, this one’s mine.”

* 

When Harry arrived back at the Academy, toward the end of trainee hours, a crowd had gathered on the green, around the Timothy Tree. “What’s going on?” Harry asked, joining Penelope on the edges of the crowd, near the cloisters.

“There was an attack on Diagon,” Penelope said.

“I know,” said Harry.

“A bunch of Revealers,” Savage added, seeing Harry and joining them. “Taking down wards.”

“They’re not Revealers,” Harry said. “It was Death Eaters. Why is everyone gathered—”

“The new board member was appointed,” said Penelope. “The one to replace Fudge. They’re holding an emergency meeting.”

Harry was beginning to get a very bad feeling. “What for?”

“The Order of the Phoenix,” said Savage. “Some of them were _trainees_.”

“The Order of the Phoenix didn’t take down the wards,” Harry said. “It was—”

“I thought the Order of the Phoenix was the Shacklebolt organization,” said Penelope, frowning.

“They deserve to be _expelled_ ,” Savage was saying. “Last year blood purism. This year radical anarchists? What is _happening_ to this institution.”

“Revolution is what’s happening,” said Spragg, who sometimes seemed to go wherever Savage went just to pick a fight. “If the Board decides to expel trainees who are only trying to show the truth to the world—”

Savage whirled on him. “They’ll get Muggles _killed_.”

Spragg sneered. “As though centuries of secrecy never hurt anyone. Or did you think because the magical world was a secret, that meant all the rape and murder and injustice perpetrated on Vulnerables could never be the fault of witches and wizards. Do you think secrets keep the innocent safe? They keep the _powerful_ safe—”

“The only thing you want to keep safe is your precious _idealism_ ,” Savage roared. “Are you even thinking about—”

Harry turned to Penelope, who so far, hadn’t joined in the argument. He could tell she was about to, so he took her arm, his voice low, urgent. “Did you say the Board was meeting right now?”

“Yes,” Penelope said, then turned to Savage and Spragg, her voice growing louder. “The Board is meeting now. Can’t you two wait until we have a better understanding of the situation? We don’t even know exactly what _happened_ in Diagon—”

“I know exactly what happened!” cried Savage.

Spragg rolled his eyes. “Oh, you just know everything, don’t you—”

Harry left them there, yelling on the green, sprinting toward the Chamber of Fires.

*

“I can tell you what happened in Diagon,” Harry said, bursting into the Chamber.

Bickford, Pillwickle, and Greengrass all slowly turned their green faces toward him. “This is a private meeting of the board,” said Greengrass, his voice as cool and disinterested as always.

“Oh hullo, Harry,” Bickford said. “We haven’t really begun—we’re awaiting our final member.”

“We do not need our final member to decide on this matter,” Pillwickle said. “I’m sure the three of _us_ can agree the Order of the Phoenix is a stain upon the Academy name.”

“You don’t even know what the Order of the Phoenix did,” said Harry.

“Oh,” said Bickford. “Oh, dear, oh dear. I’m afraid we do, Harry! We know they dropped the wards on Diagon Alley this morning—terrible mess, I’m afraid. Terrible, terrible. People hurt, injured—Mug—I mean, non-magical and magical alike! A terrible mess.”

“No,” said Harry. “Death Eaters dropped the wards. Fenrir Greyback. You would know that if you had spoken to any Aurors at all before you called this meeting.”

“Greyback!” said Bickford, horrified.

“Technically the meeting hasn’t even begun,” Greengrass said smoothly. “Our fourth member hasn’t arrived.”

Harry didn’t bother to bring up the fact that Pillwickle had contradicted that idea not a moment ago. “The Order of the Phoenix—Teddy Lupin, Regina Fairchild, and Astoria _Greengrass_ ,” he added pointedly, looking at Greengrass—“ _stopped_ Greyback’s false flag operation. Greyback wanted to make it _look_ like radical Revealers were dropping the wards. It was a trainee, among others, who _stopped_ the criminals.”

“Oh dear.” Bickford shook his jowly face in the Floo, not looking as though he fully understood.

“If that’s the case,” came Pillwickle’s silky voice, “then it sounds like our _trainee_ was acting outside the law.”

“How so?” Harry demanded. “He stopped a known criminal from—”

“And should that not be the job of Aurors?” Pillwickle’s long face was placid, calm. “Since when did we allow citizens to take the law into their own hands? Bernard.”

Though laconic, there was a command in Pillwickle’s tone that drew Bickford to instant attention.

“What should one do if one spots the infamous escapee Fenrir Greyback?” Pillwickle went on.

Bickford’s lower lip trembled. “One should . . . one should notify the Auror Force immediately.” He looked uncertainly at Harry.

“Fairchild is an Auror,” Harry pointed out.

“And was _Auror_ Fairchild behaving in her capacity as a member of our law-abiding Force?” asked Pillwickle. “Or did she aid and abet a vigilante organization to monitor the wards and pursue criminals at their own discretion, rather than seek aid of law enforcement? And if I’m not mistaken, one of our other trainees joined in this criminal activity as well.” Pillwickle smirked at Harry. “Or did you come to plead the case of your favourite little trainee once more?”

He meant Draco Malfoy.

Pillwickle’s smirk widened. “I suppose he’ll be expelled after all.”

Harry opened his mouth.

“This is pointless to discuss without our fourth member,” said Greengrass’s bored voice.

Pillwickle turned to Greengrass, smirk souring. “You can’t protect her forever.”

“Protect whom?” asked Greengrass. “You’re the one who’s also on the board of Wardlock. I heard the charm they used to monitor the wards was theirs. I’m surprised a company in which you take such a particular interest would be so careless with the potential uses of its products,” said Greengrass, his voice careless.

Harry wasn’t sure he was understanding correctly. He had never heard Pillwickle and Greengrass go against each other. 

“I’m confused,” Bickford was saying. “If the charm used to monitor the wards alerted the Order, which allowed them to stop Greyback—isn’t that a _good_ thing?”

“Yes,” said a new voice.

The final alumni vote had come during the action at Diagon, and Harry had not yet heard the results. As the Floo was behind him, Harry had to turn to see the fourth hearth, where the green face of the fourth member of the Board of Regents glowed.

“Hello Harry,” said Kavika. “I understand you do not usually attend meetings for the Board of Regents. It must be a special day.”

Harry felt himself begin to smile as he nodded in agreement. “A really special day.”

*

In the end, the Board of Regents came to unanimous agreement. Teddy Lupin was allowed to graduate, Draco Malfoy to advance to Level Two. 

No one was expelled.

*

Graduation day dawned softly, a golden gift unwrapping gently in papers of pink and butter yellow. By the time trainees, instructors, staff, and Aurors alumni gathered under the Timothy Tree, everything felt new, awake, and alive, the greens greener than they had been all spring, the birds louder. Teddy received his certification along with everyone else, though the _Prophet_ had already reported on his lack of intention to be an Auror. Nyala and Malfoy advanced to Level Two with very little fanfare. Baggot had given Malfoy highest marks.

After the ceremony, trainees and recent graduates gathered for magic photographs and congratulations, and Ron found Harry at the edge of the crowd. “I’ll see you after you’re done with Malfoy?” Ron asked.

“It shouldn’t take too long.” Things finally seemed to be wrapping up, so Harry turned from watching Teddy to find Malfoy, who was standing a little bit apart with Rune. Rune was talking with his animated smile and frankly gorgeous hands, and Malfoy had on that intent, listening look.

“You hadn’t mentioned his Patronus changed.”

“What?” Distracted, Harry turned back to Ron.

“Malfoy’s Patronus changed.”

“Yeah.” Harry rubbed the back of his fist with his other hand. “It’s good. It’s . . . nice.”

Ron gave him a little smile, one of the kind ones. “Okay.”

“You know, it’s weird. Sometimes I get these . . . dreams. Or flashes. And it’s like—Malfoy is exactly who he was. He made fun of you. He almost killed you. He tried to kill me. And Hermione . . .”

“Slapped him,” Ron supplied, affably.

“He deserved it.”

“But not anymore.”

“Oh, right,” Harry said. “I mean, he’s definitely a different person. What I mean is, how do you deal with how he hurt you, when he’s not the same anymore?”

“You mean because you don’t get to blame him anymore.”

Harry nodded, and Ron looked out over the green, toward where Rune and Malfoy stood laughing. “You could blame him if you want, Harry. It wouldn’t be wrong.” 

The problem was, Harry didn’t want to blame Malfoy. He wanted Malfoy to be himself, without memories of who they had been to stand in his way or hurt him. Hopefully today, Harry could help that happen.

As though sensing their gazes, Malfoy turned toward them. Waving, he turned back to Rune, touching Rune’s arm, then leaning in for a quick kiss.

“I think they’re a nice couple,” Ron said.

“What?” Harry asked again.

Ron nodded in Rune and Malfoy’s direction. Malfoy, having left Rune behind, was coming towards them.

“Oh,” Harry said. “Yeah. I mean, I haven’t thought about it much. I’m just glad Malfoy isn’t into me anymore.”

Ron looked at him quickly, but then Malfoy was there, smirking and proud and happy. “Life of the party over here, innit?”

“Congrats, Malfoy.” Ron put out his hand. “Only took you three years.”

Malfoy stared down at Ron’s hand like it was some kind of sudden snake in the grass, then up at Ron, then, inexplicably, at Harry. Then he was swooping in, grabbing Ron’s hand with gusto, pumping it several times energetically. “Three years means one hundred and fifty percent of the Auror you are, Weasley.”

“Graduating Level One puts you at fifty percent,” said Ron. “It’s a good thing Level Two doesn’t require Arithmancy.”

“I would ace it,” Malfoy said, tossing his head.

“You’ll have fun if you ever do make Auror,” Ron went on. “The Force loves fresh meat who’s arrogant and thinks they know everything.”

“‘Course, they do. They loved Potter.”

Ron’s face darkened. “Is that what you read?”

Malfoy’s face fell, and Harry moved in beside Ron. “We should go,” he told Malfoy. “You want to get the pub, don’t you?” Harry turned to Ron. “I’ll see you there.”

Ron’s face looked like it did whenever Hermione went to face a political challenge, and he didn’t like the odds. “I could come with you.”

“I don’t want you getting hurt,” Harry said.

Ron opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of it, perhaps recognizing the look on Harry’s face as well. “All right,” he said, “but call me if you need me.” Turning, he gave Malfoy an inscrutable look before going to join his fellow Aurors.

“Come on,” Harry said, turning away.

Malfoy followed.

Once exams had begun, Harry had finally had time to find a ritual he thought would remove Malfoy’s Dark Mark. Given the dark magic involved, a strongly warded place seemed best for the procedure, and the Academy was better protected than anywhere other than Gringotts and Hogwarts. During exams, the Academy was always crawling with trainees, even in the late hours, but directly after graduation, the place cleared out fairly quickly. Harry had already explained these reasons to Malfoy, who had eagerly agreed to stay after the ceremony so that Harry could remove his Mark.

“Here?” Malfoy gestured to the door in front of them, the classroom Harry generally used for ADADA.

“It’s got double wards in case there are accidents,” Harry explained. Opening the door, he walked into the room. “You should take off your robe.”

“Right.” Coming the rest of the way into the room, Malfoy Banished the outer robe he had worn for the ceremony. Underneath, he had on sleek trousers, a tailored coat. Banishing the coat as well, Malfoy revealed a silver waistcoat and a slate blue shirt. Pointing his wand at the cuff of his left arm, Malfoy cast another spell to roll up the sleeve.

He had dressed posh for his advancement to Level Two, Harry realized. “I thought using spells to undress was rude,” he said instead.

Malfoy’s head snapped up. “Pardon?”

Malfoy hadn’t quite said rude, that time Harry had told him he should take off his tightly lacked coat so he could better relax and cast his Patronus. “Impolite?” Harry hazarded.

“Why on earth would undressing with a spell be impolite?”

Harry opened his mouth, but Malfoy looked honestly confused. He didn’t remember, Harry realized, then closed it.

“Oh.” Malfoy took a swift breath, and Harry could hear the recollection in it. “I was—don’t . . . half of the things I said then were at least seventy-five percent falsehood.” 

“So overall you were sixty-two percent truthful?”

“I don’t know.” Malfoy jerked down his sleeve. “I’m terrible at Arithmancy.”

Harry laughed, but quickly coughed—Malfoy wasn’t laughing. He was looking away, biting his lip, scarlet beginning to curl into his cheeks. Harry hadn’t meant to embarrass him—or he had, a little, but not like this. “Malfoy—”

Neatly, Malfoy stepped away, and only then did Harry realize he had reached for him. “Perhaps we shouldn’t do this. You’re putting yourself at risk needlessly—”

Harry moved to him. “Don’t be a prat.” Grabbing Malfoy’s arm, he pulled the sleeve back up.

Malfoy took another sharp breath.

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Harry added.

Malfoy looked down at where Harry held his arm, then back up. “Unhand me.”

“What?” Harry’s hand loosened in surprise.

Malfoy put up his nose. “The sleeves will wrinkle,” he said, and Harry let him go. Malfoy may have changed since school days, but he had never stopped being a ponce.

“Just keep your wand out,” Harry said, as Malfoy cast the spell so that the silk neatly folded up, until the sleeve was above the elbow, tight around Malfoy’s triceps. Harry checked his notes, and when he looked back, Malfoy had rolled up his other sleeve as well, and held his wand in his right hand. “I have to activate it before I can begin to draw the life magic out of you,” Harry said. “It’s going to hurt.”

“Yes. Okay. Do it.” Thrusting out his left arm, wrist up, Malfoy looked away.

“All right,” Harry said, wrapping his hand around Malfoy’s arm. He pointed his wand. “Brace yourself.” 

The spell Harry had invented to activate the Mark was similar to the spell that had made their DA coins in fifth year, but this, like any good sigil, carried the power of emotion behind it. Generating the loathing Voldemort would instil in his own insignia was easy; Harry only had to look at the red scar marring Malfoy’s otherwise clear skin.

After a moment, the Mark burned black. Malfoy gasped, and when Harry met his eyes, Malfoy’s were wide. “You’re safe,” Harry said, his voice soft.

“I know,” whispered Malfoy.

“Only a little more.” 

This was a lie. With the magic active beneath Malfoy’s skin, Harry could begin to draw it out, but the binding spell had been made with Malfoy’s blood and Voldemort’s, as well as the sacrifice that lived like a ghost in Malfoy’s skin. Wrestling with that spirit would not be the same as an exorcism of a human ghost—those took days. Still, the spirit that had been bound here would have no desire to leave. 

“ _Quomodocunque Exorcizari_ ,” Harry murmured. As soon as Harry began the spell, a green mist began to seep out around them, a malevolent force that sank down toward the floor, slithering around their legs. 

“What—?” Malfoy began.

“Don’t look,” Harry told him, his other hand turning Malfoy’s head away as he held his wand over the Mark. The magic inside of Malfoy was angry. It would be looking for a new home once Harry drew it out. Unguarded against it, so familiar with it, Malfoy would be vulnerable to it, open. He mustn’t allow it any purchase in him, any place to find a home.

When the magic Voldemort had buried in the Mark at last began to spool out, it took the form of snakes made of green light, writhing in a mass on Malfoy’s arm. Seeing the swarming ugliness of them broke Harry’s heart, knowing that Malfoy had carried this seething hatred in him so long. “Don’t look,” Harry murmured again, still pressing Malfoy’s head away.

One by one, Harry coiled out the spirit of the sacrifices Voldemort had made, and one by one, Harry put them to rest, casting the spells used to protect graveyards and corpses. By the end, Malfoy was breathing hard, but he hadn’t made a sound. “Shh,” Harry told him, needlessly. His concentration was all for the Mark. “You’re doing so well. Only a little more.”

At last, the sacrifices were laid to rest. Only then did Malfoy shift his weight, a soft sound at last relieved from his lips, like a whine. “Just a little more,” Harry said, his hand moving down to Malfoy’s neck, so he could hold him steady and concentrate on his work.

Malfoy whined again, but Harry had already cast the blood extraction spell, pulling out Voldemort’s blood and the old, dead blood of a younger Malfoy. Then there was only the scar. “Oh,” Malfoy said, jerking as Harry began to heal it.

Harry gripped Malfoy by the nape more tightly. “Hold still,” he said, knowing that knitting and reknitting feeling of scar-healing could be in the very least itchy, and at most quite painful. 

“Please,” Malfoy whispered.

“I’m almost finished,” Harry said, guiding the skin smoother, and smoother, and smoother. Malfoy’s skin was almost surprising, here—a softer, more vulnerable white on the underside than on the tops of his arms. Though Malfoy was still lean, now that Harry had been looking at the forearm a while, the muscle seemed almost thick—long and ropy, corded over with veins. The powder-white skin looked deceptively soft over that lean strength. Maybe this was the kind of thing that Fleur thought was well-made.

“Let go of my neck,” Malfoy pleaded.

“Oh,” Harry said, realizing what he was doing. He let go of Malfoy’s neck. “Just a bit more,” Harry added, holding Malfoy’s arm instead, to keep it steady. Malfoy was beginning to get restless.

With one little whimpering noise, however, Malfoy acquiesced, and at last, the arm was pale and smooth. Putting down his wand, Harry ran the flat of his hand over it, just to be sure. “Harry,” a voice said in his ear.

Abruptly, Harry let him go. Malfoy’s hand clapped down over the newly clear skin of his own arm. He was looking away, but he was swaying where he stood, and when Harry moved so he could see his face, his eyes were closed, and wet. “Are you all right?” Harry grabbed his shoulder to steady him again. “Malfoy?”

Slowly, Malfoy’s eyes opened. “I can’t understand you.”

“Sit down.” Turning, Harry pointed his wand. “Accio chair.”

A chair floated over from behind the only desk in the room, and Malfoy sank down into it. “You’re speaking Parseltongue.”

“What?” Harry asked, but then he heard it. It must have been the snake-shape the magic had taken, and he had been concentrating so closely he hadn’t realized. He’d thought the language would leave with Voldemort, but it hadn’t. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s perfect; I love people speaking snake at me; it never reminds me of a megalomaniac serial killer living in my childhood house. Not at—” Cutting himself off, Malfoy fell into abrupt silence. His hand still covered the blank space on his arm. He was staring at the floor.

Harry Summoned a glass of water, then made it cold, because that was nice. “Here,” he said, holding it out to Malfoy, but Malfoy didn’t drink it. Harry Summoned chocolate next, because they were nice as well, but Malfoy took it and didn’t eat that either. “What can I do?” Harry said, squatting next to the chair, so he could be closer to eye level.

“Nothing.” Malfoy stood, walking two paces to set the water on the desk and lay the chocolate next to it, the arrangement somehow precise. When he turned to Harry, he was still holding his arm, and he didn’t meet Harry’s eyes. “I should go to the pub. To the celebration. To my boyfriend,” he added, after a moment.

“Are you all right?”

“Perfectly.” Malfoy stopped in front of him, almost as though facing him—but he still wasn’t, not really. His eyes were unfocused, looking somewhere above Harry’s own, at Harry’s brow, or his forehead, perhaps. “Thank you for the service you rendered me. I shall not forget it.” He turned to go.

“Malfoy,” Harry said.

Malfoy sucked in a tight breath, eyes snapping down to where Harry had grabbed his upper arm. Malfoy looked at it so long that Harry let him go. “Did I hurt you?” Harry asked.

Malfoy’s eyes finally met his then, wide with surprise. “Oh,” he whispered, then began to tremble. “I’m—oh, Potter. I . . .”

Harry watched, shocked, as Malfoy began to cry, his eyes filling up as he clenched his jaw in obvious aversion to it. Then he dashed away tears with the back of his hand, almost angrily. “Come here,” Harry said, taking him by the shoulder, leading him to the chair. “Sit,” Harry said, but Malfoy didn’t sit. Harry picked up the water. “Drink the water.”

Malfoy drank the water.

“Good,” Harry said, and Malfoy’s breath caught. “Show me your arm.”

Malfoy held on to it.

“Show it to me,” Harry said, and Malfoy at last took his hand off, baring his forearm for Harry to see. The skin was as clear as ever. It really was a well-made arm. Harry put his hand over where the Dark Mark used to be, and Malfoy gasped. Harry took his hand away. “Does that hurt?”

“No, it’s . . . sensitive.”

Harry touched the smooth skin more gently now. “I think you’re brave,” he said, and Malfoy made a little noise, like a protest. “I know he hurt you,” Harry went on. “Not the same way that he hurt me, but he hurt you. In some ways worse. I want you to know—I never wanted him to. Not ever. I never wanted him to hurt anyone, but least of all children, and non-mags, and people who were alone, without anyone to help them. You didn’t deserve to be hurt, Malfoy. Not like that.”

“Please.” Malfoy gulped for air. His eyes were wet again. “You should . . . please stop.”

Harry let him go.

Standing there, still trembling a little, Malfoy seemed to be searching for something in Harry’s eyes. “I should go,” he said abruptly. He glanced toward the door. “They’ll be wondering . . .”

“All right,” Harry said. “I’m going to fix all the wards, make sure nothing malicious got out.”

Malfoy lingered. “Do you need . . . ?”

“No,” Harry said, because Malfoy seemed anxious to get away. “I can do it. You go on.”

Malfoy headed toward the door, and Harry turned from him to attend the wards. He was just beginning the protection spells when Malfoy’s voice stopped him.

“Harry. I . . .”

Harry turned. Malfoy’s hand was on the door knob, his expression knit with some inner conflict. At last, it seemed to smooth out. “You know you saved the world, right?” Malfoy said. “I mean, not just the one time. Over and over.”

Harry wasn’t sure why Malfoy felt the need to tell him this now, but he waited and he listened.

“No one’s ever been like you before,” Malfoy said. “I just wanted you to know. No one will be again.” Opening the door, he walked out of it, snapping his sleeves down with a spell as he went.

*


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to icmezzo and seraphcelene for helping me get this written. Thank you to siemejay for looking it over, giving me your truthful thoughts, encouraging me, and helping me be better always.

“There’s one more item,” Savage said to the Academy instructors seated around the table.

Harry was already exhausted, and that was just from sitting here. They had managed to get through the agenda for the start of the year with greater ease than the last three years, which had usually involved discussions of Malfoy. Since he had finally advanced to Level Two, at least they no longer had to talk about him.

“The Order of the Phoenix,” Savage announced, with the air of someone announcing a dire threat.

Penelope’s brow lowered. “How is that of concern here?”

“It’s a terrorist organization,” Savage answered.

“Do we call all organizations who seek to help magical and non-magical citizens alike terrorists?” Spragg wanted to know.

“I still don’t understand how it affects the Academy,” said Penelope.

“It affects the Force.” Savage’s flicked to Harry. “And given its membership, it seems likely that it could unduly influence trainees—”

“Unduly influence trainees to become people who can help integrate magical people into the larger world, and educate non-magical people about the civilization about to join them?” Spragg asked. “That kind of influence?”

Harry realized he wasn’t sitting at the table. He was in another room, an auditorium, watching the table on a Pensieve projector. He was under the stairs, listening to an argument about what was to be done to address funny business—the funny business of his hair, of the snake at the zoo, of the owls, of his life.

“We’re training _Aurors_ ,” Savage snapped. “ _Aurors_ will be the ones dealing with the chaos after Reveal, not—”

“Are you sure about that?” said Spragg. “Are you sure about that, after centuries of Obliviate?”

“What does that have to do with us?” Penelope threw up her hands. “Our job is to educate, not worry about what—”

“What the outside world is doing?” Spragg turned on her. “It’s what the magical world has always done, isn’t it? Worry about ourselves.”

Penelope reared back. “I’m on your side. For once! What’s your problem?”

Harry thought about escaping outside—the bright sunlight of August. The click of insects in the grass, the scent of sun on stones. The bright green rustle of leaves overhead, shifting to display splintering shadows. Malfoy under the Timothy Tree, steady and reassuring and so willing to search inside himself, to find himself, to be himself. Malfoy and Teddy under the Timothy Tree—Teddy, who had sorted through the options available to him, then made a new option for himself entirely.

“His _problem_ is he has to bring his pro-Reveal agenda into every conversation about the real dangers faced by—”

Spragg whirled on Savage now, as well. “My _problem_ is you have to bring _your_ anti-non-mag bigotry into every—”

“I’m not anti-Muggle!” Savage roared, slamming her hands on the table. “I want to _protect_ them! Which is not what Reveal is going to do!”

Harry stood up, heading for the door.

“Instructor Potter!” Povey called out. “You aren’t going to participate in the discussion?”

“I participated in the discussion,” Harry said. “This is arguing.”

“You don’t have a position?” Spragg demanded.

Harry looked around the room—at Savage, Spragg, and Penelope, who were all red-faced and furious, at Baggot, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, at Povey, who looked like he thought he was in charge. “I do have a position,” Harry said, his words coming slowly. “If this institution does anything to get in the way of Theodore Lupin’s Order, I quit.”

The room exploded, but Harry turned, then walked away. Outdoors was as he had imagined it, a slow, thick quality to the air that only came from excessive heat. Harry usually wore his robes while on campus, but now he Banished them, leaving him only in shirt sleeves and trousers. Taking off his shoes and socks, he walked across the green to the shade of the Timothy Tree, where it was significantly cooler. 

This tree was different than other trees—somehow more tranquil, somehow more comforting, like a friend that had also suffered, who understood, and was silent. Sitting on the bench, Harry leaned his head back on the trunk, and thought of Malfoy. Did Malfoy feel that way about the Timothy Tree? Had he made it feel that way for Harry? But no, of course he hadn’t. Harry had felt this way about this tree since his first year at Academy, the year after he had defeated Voldemort, the year he had had to rebuild his life after losing too much and too long spent in war. Perhaps Harry had made the Timothy Tree feel this way. Perhaps he had made it feel this way for Malfoy, or for any of the people who came to sit under it now.

Which, at around this time, usually included Penelope.

“Good idea!” she called, Banishing her own robes, then taking off her shoes and socks. Carrying them with her to the bench, she sat down with a heaving sigh. “Can you believe Spragg?”

Harry closed his eyes, pressing his skull against the tree. “Not really.”

“He actually told Hilda that he wants Ted’s Order of the Phoenix to bring down the entire Department.”

Harry cracked an eye. “Ted?”

“Why can’t we just have both?” Penelope went on. “Why is nothing ever good enough for Spragg? He actually has a point, for once. We should let the Order do its thing! But that’s not good enough; it has to ruin _our_ thing; it has to push the Force and the Academy out of existence. Why is Spragg even here, if he just wants to pull the whole thing down?”

“Penelope.” Harry closed his eyes again. “Why are _you_ here?”

“What?”

“At the Academy.” Harry pushed his skull harder against the tree. “Why did you decide to instruct and train, rather than just continue to be an Auror?”

“I . . .” Penelope sounded at a loss. Opening his eyes, Harry sat up straighter to look at her. Her sharp features wore a little frown. “I wanted to help people. And I thought I was better at—at . . . telling people what to do.”

“All right,” Harry said softly. “Consider that Dirk Spragg wants to help people. And he thinks he’s better doing what he does right now.”

“Right, but the _way_ he wants to help people—”

“I understand,” said Harry. “I just mean—what if your way isn’t the only way? What if his way could work? You never know; he could surprise you. You never know what people are capable of.”

Penelope snorted. “I know what Spragg’s capable of.”

“Do you?” Closing his eyes, Harry leaned back against the tree. “I used to think I knew what people were capable of. What was good or just or right. I tried my hardest. I gave up—everything, to do what I thought was right. I think that I did well.”

“Of course, you did,” Penelope said. “No one’s ever done as much as you. You saved the world.”

“Yeah.” Running his fingers over the back of his fist, Harry thought of the summer spent with Teddy, recruiting members for his Order, working through connections to get the Order resources. They’d spent long nights at Rombe Pickle with Malfoy, Astoria, Nyala, Fairchild, Mark, a few other Aurors, a few non-magical family members and friends of the new recruits, planning what Reveal could look like if it was not organized by the Ministry for Magic. “That was enough.”

“Obviously, it was enough,” Penelope said. “It nearly killed you. Several times. Plus, it killed half our friends; it took so much away from us—”

“I know,” Harry said. “I know. But there’s more to do, isn’t there? There’s always more to do.”

“You mean you think _Spragg_ is some kind of equivalent to _you_?” Penelope sounded appalled. “You think he’s out there, saving the world?”

“I mean that the world is bigger. It’s always bigger than you think it is, and you don’t know what part you play, or what any of us plays.”

Penelope snorted. “I know what part Spragg plays. Hilda too, for that matter.”

Harry opened his eyes, smiling. “And Baggot?”

“Don’t even get me started on _Baggot_ ,” said Penelope, instantly infuriated. “I’ve never forgiven him for failing Draco, the Old Blood stooge. Did you see how he didn’t even say anything about the Order?”

“Penelope,” said Harry, still smiling. “Have a chocolate.”

*

“Oh, you’re early,” said Doctor Yin, opening their door in a flurry.

Harry was, in fact, bang on time, but he neglected to mention it.

Doctor Grace Yin was his fifth therapist after Kavika, and after having zero therapy for most of the past year, he was rather desperate to make this work. “Come in,” said Doctor Yin, opening the door wider. “Don’t mind the mess,” they added, already turning their back to him to head down the corridor. “We’re just getting settled in.”

“The mess” was stacks of scrolls, of parchments, and of books lining either side of the hall, many of them taller than Harry. Some of the scrolls were rearranging themselves, while magic quills wrote on several of the parchments. Pots of ink and filing portfolios floated in the air. Madam Pince would have fainted. Hermione probably would have fallen in love.

“In here,” Doctor Yin said, showing him into an office. Almost as stuffed with paraphernalia as the hall, the room looked like a non-mag painter’s impression of a fantastical magic study. A crystal ball sat wedged next to an old-fashioned genie lamp, which was stuffed under something that possibly was a magic loom. In the corner, what appeared to be a taxidermy leopard poked its head out from under a tapestry woven with silver astronomical symbols. Across from this stood a terrarium with many tiny exotic plants, spelled to contain a sky, complete with clouds and its own sun.

“Oh, dear,” said Doctor Yin, observing that no surface was unoccupied, much less any chairs. Taking out their wand, they Banished a pile of parchment, a vase of fish, and a skull out of a bowl chair. “You can sit there,” they said, then somehow made their way beside the leopard, around what must be a table under piles and piles of scrolls, to another chair. This chair had a big mullioned window behind it, half covered with a fringed tapestry curtain. Doctor Yin sank into it. “I’m sorry. You’re thinking, ‘what kind of therapist is this’? That’s what I think, most days.”

In their late forties, Doctor Yin was a plain-looking person with an oval face, round lips, and kind eyes. Their hair was straight, but pulled into a very messy bun. “Smoothie?” Doctor Yin said, popping out of their chair only moments after they had flopped into it.

“Er,” said Harry. “No.”

“Do you mind if I make myself one? While I do it, you could perhaps tell me a little bit about yourself—that will make this starting part less awkward.”

Harry rubbed the back of his fist. “Well, I teach at the Auror Academy.” Pausing, Harry tried to think of more autobiographical information.

“Accio banana.” A banana shot out from behind a magically lit globe and into Doctor Yin’s hand. “Accio kiwi,” they said next, and a kiwi bounced out of an equally improbable location. “Term just started, didn’t it? How was that?” Putting various items in what appeared to be an old non-magical blender, Doctor Yin pointed their wand at it, and it began to grind.

“Fine,” Harry tried to say, but the grinding was loud.

“Sorry!” Doctor Yin yelled, and the grinding stopped. Picking up the pitcher, they poured the grey-looking smoothie into a jar, then came back to their seat. “You have an orientation, right? Is it weird to meet the new trainees?” 

Harry kept rubbing his fist. “They usually ask about . . . about me being Harry Potter.”

“I imagine that’s uncomfortable.” Doctor Yin gulped their smoothie.

“Yes,” Harry said, relieved that he didn’t have to explain. “They always want to know how I killed Voldemort.”

“What did you tell them?”

Harry gave them a rueful smile. “I always say it’s between me and my therapist.” 

“I understand you haven’t had a therapist in a while. Did it feel okay, saying that this time?”

“Yes,” Harry said, then he thought about it. “Sort of. For the last three years, Malfoy’s been there, but he wasn’t this time, so it was—I wasn’t used to the questions. Not in quite the same way.”

“Mm,” said Doctor Yin. “He advanced to Level Two. Is that right? I read something about that. I’m thinking of the right person, aren’t I? The Old Blood Death Eater one? Disowned? Gay? Blond? Tall? In Auror Academy? I’ve been out of the country.”

“Er,” Harry said. “Yeah, mostly, only he’s not a Death Eater anymore.”

“New leaf.” Doctor Yin took a sip. “Leaves. He’s like a tree. How did he make trainees asking you questions feel different?”

“He didn’t actually . . .” Shifting his weight, Harry rubbed his hand some more.

Leaning over, Doctor Yin picked up a pile of crystal-looking things from a nearby shelf, then held them out to Harry. “They’re charmed to each other. Can’t take them apart. Sure is fun to try, though.”

Harry took the crystals. Doctor Yin went back to gulping their smoothie, and Harry found that they were right. The way the crystals pulled together had a weird sort of tension that was interesting to manipulate. You could change the configuration, you could even put space between them, but eventually they snapped back.

“So, Draco Malfoy didn’t actually make nosy trainees much worse?” said Yin.

“What?” Harry looked up quickly. “No. He made it better. I mean—sometimes. He didn’t always, though. Do anything. He just—I don’t know. He brings me coffee.”

“Okay,” said Yin. “We can talk about that. So, how did it feel without Malfoy there?”

Harry frowned. “I didn’t mean I couldn’t do it without him. I was fine before he—” Harry didn’t quite know how to label what Malfoy had done, during last year’s orientation. “I was fine. The orientation was like . . . it was like it was before.”

“Was it?”

Harry thought about it—three orientations with Malfoy, then two before it without. The last few years—with Malfoy attending Academy, then Teddy—had made Harry feel as though something was happening at Academy, something different, something of note. This year, Malfoy and Nyala would surely graduate, and then Harry would go on—year after year, as he once had at Hogwarts, and endless pattern with the war going on outside of it, bigger than school, bigger than the world to which he was confined.

“I don’t know,” Harry said finally, confused.

“I think it would suck.” Yin shrugged. “I think it would suck, having this line I say about my therapist, when I don’t have a therapist.”

Harry had already forgotten he had told them about this line; he’d been thinking about how orientation felt without Malfoy. 

“Usually,” Doctor Yin went on, “I would think that line would remind others they’re being invasive. Meanwhile, it would remind me that I have healthy ways of discussing painful things. But if I said it when I didn’t actually have a therapist, it would remind me I didn’t have that outlet right now, and that would suck.”

Harry stared at them, the crystal toy gone slack in his hand. He stared at them for a while, because they had a taxidermy leopard, and dressed like Trewlaney, and had said he was early when he was on time. All of this, and he still felt better than he had with any other therapist so far. “Yeah,” he said, eventually. “It does suck.”

Yin made a face. “I don’t know what I’d do without my therapist. Probably drink too much wine and cry.”

“You—?” Harry shifted in his chair. “Have a therapist?”

“What? Yes. I’m a disaster.” They gestured around the room. “Everyone should get therapy. A pity the wizarding world has four people in it.”

Harry felt the side of his mouth curl up. “That’s what Ron always says.”

“Well, obviously, he’s one of the four.”

As the other side of Harry’s mouth curved up, he noticed the shape of Yin’s face once more—a perfect oval, which made the features of their face appear placed just so. They were less plain that he had initially supposed, their eyes bright like a night in a faerie parade, their mouth lush and expressive.

“Now you know how I handle stress,” said Yin. “Therapy, wine, crying—in that order. Do you want to tell me what it’s been like without a regular therapist, or does ‘it sucks’ cover it?”

“Er. I think that covers it.” Harry reached to touch his scar, instead finding the crystals in his lap. For some reason, he felt inspired to say, “I don’t always sleep so well.”

“Oh, ouch, yeah.” Yin winced. “How do you deal with that? Are you the ‘make sleep happen at all costs’ sort, or the ‘sleep isn’t happening so I might as well learn every magical language that exists’ sort? My partner is that latter. Do you really need to know Old Elfish? I ask you.”

“Well, I . . .” Harry ran his fingers over the crystals. “Er, Malfoy, he gave me . . . some remedies? And those have been helping.”

“Sweet Dreams?”

“No, I already took that. There’s—er, there was a lot. Tea, and some kind of incense. Two were powders; there’s this cream you rub on your temples . . . it’s sort of weird. Some of them aren’t magic, I don’t think. I’m not sure.”

“Do you know they’re safe?”

“Oh,” Harry said, surprised. “I mean, they’re Malfoy’s, so—they’re fine. I mean, he wouldn’t—he would have at one time. But he wouldn’t hurt me.”

“That’s good. One less person trying to poison you is always great. I meant, rather—are they safe for him as well? People don’t always help themselves in the best ways.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, “but it’s Malfoy. He wouldn’t—he reads a lot. And studies all the time. He just wouldn’t give me something that—I mean, even if he was doing something to himself, he wouldn’t do it to me. Something questionable, I mean. He would—he’s careful. About—about those kinds of things.”

“Sure,” said Yin. “It’s good you trust him.”

 _I don’t trust him,_ Harry opened his mouth to say, but of course, that was what he had just told Yin. It was true, he realized. About the sleep remedies. Harry trusted him.

“So have the remedies helped?” Yin asked. 

“Some. They’re—it’s better. But I still have nightmares, sometimes. I had them less. When I was—when I had a regular therapist.” 

“What are the nightmares about?”

“Usually, they’re about people I care about getting hurt.” Harry was still playing with the crystals, pulling them apart so that they floated in the air, then watching them float back together, clicking into a single twisted object with a snap. “Sometimes it’s because of things that happened—in the past. At Hogwarts. In the war. Other times it’s—from when I was on the Force. Sometimes it’s—it’s my fault they’re hurt, and I don’t . . . I don’t know why.”

“Dreams are weird,” said Yin. “People ascribe meaning to them, because they’re your brain trying to process things. But sometimes the way your brain needs to process is a way your waking self will never understand, so—you only have to take from them what you want to. Is there one in particular that bothers you?”

“Well,” Harry said, twisting the crystals. “They’re different every time, so . . . I guess.” He twisted them back, then pulled them apart again. “There was one with Teddy. He’s graduated Academy, so it wasn’t even . . . but in the dream, he was still at Academy. And I just . . . forgot he was there. I mean, everyone forgot he was there. He was still going to classes, but no one would see him, or pay him any attention, and then I found out he’d been waiting in my office for me, but I didn’t know at first. And then I was just . . . too busy; I left him there.”

“Teddy. Your godson?” When Harry nodded, Yin said, “Okay, these dreams are the worst. Mothers have dreams about forgetting their children. My best friend had a recurring dream about forgetting her Niffler.” Yin made a face. “As if you could forget a Niffler. They get into _everything._ ”

“That’s what Kavika said. Not about Nifflers.” Somehow, the way that Doctor Yin got a bit off topic made Harry feel even more comfortable, as though they were really having a conversation. “I used to have dreams about forgetting Teddy all the time.”

“How did this one end?”

“Well, I mean . . . Malfoy came into my office to—deliver something, and he realized everyone had forgotten about Teddy. It doesn’t make sense, because Teddy wouldn’t—I mean, he could have just left. He _did_ just leave.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s not going to be an Auror. He’s started . . .” Pulling the crystals apart, Harry let them snap together. “It’s an organization. Kind of. To work on non-mag and magical relations.”

“Right.” Yin was nodding. “I read about it in the papers.”

“So,” Harry went on, “it’s not like Teddy needs people taking care of him. Not anymore. He can obviously look out for himself.”

“Just because someone can take care of themselves doesn’t mean you don’t feel a responsibility.” 

Yin said it so simply, but Harry felt like a light suddenly turned on in his brain. He wasn’t worried about not taking care of Teddy; he was worried about Teddy not needing to be taken care of. He wanted to be a part of Teddy’s life, and he was. Harry had talked to everyone from Kingsley Shacklebolt to Viktor Krum to help with recruitment efforts, and he was usually at the meetings. Seeing Teddy lead them, however, made him feel just a little superfluous. “When I was at Hogwarts,” Harry said slowly, “no one seemed to be addressing things I thought were wrong. It’s why I started the DA. Er—that’s Dumbledore’s Army.”

Doctor Yin flapped their hand. “I know your bio. You only have to explain what’s not printed—I’m sure there’s a lot; I just mean, I know all the acronyms.”

This made Harry chuckle. “Right. I just mean, I was always doing things that I thought weren’t getting done. But when I killed Voldemort, and the war ended—I didn’t know how to put Lucius Malfoy in Azkaban for longer than he got. I didn’t know how to remake the Ministry. I think a part of me thought . . . I wouldn’t need to.”

“Is that what Lupin’s Order of the Phoenix is doing? Remaking the Ministry?”

“No.” Harry’s hand moved over the scar on the back of his hand. “Yes. A little. It reminds me of something I would do, but I didn’t, and it makes me . . . it makes me worried. For him.”

“Worried he’ll get hurt? Or worried he doesn’t need you anymore?” The sympathy on Doctor Yin’s face was so open and so kind, like someone Harry had known for a while.

Harry didn’t know what that was, the quality in some people that could make some people comfortable, then completely turn off others, the way it was different for different people, the way it could change and grow different for the same people. “Maybe I _am_ worried he doesn’t need me,” Harry said. “I don’t know.”

“What did you like about being needed?” said Doctor Yin. “Maybe we can start there.”

Harry thought about this, about the responsibility he had felt, when Teddy was a child. He’d been so worried that Teddy would be lonely, as Harry himself had been; Harry had been unable to withdraw from people, even when he wanted to—after Ginny, after quitting the Aurors. Making sure Teddy would have friends and family forced him to see Ron and Hermione, Bill and Fleur, George and Angelina, even when he would have otherwise withdrawn, and then Teddy had wanted to go to Academy. With Teddy there, Harry had felt like he had to make the Academy a safe place for Teddy; he had felt he had to look after Teddy’s comfort. He had felt . . . challenged.

 _She challenges me,_ floated through Harry’s brain. 

“He made me want to be better,” Harry said finally.

“And was that a good thing?”

“Yes.” Harry thought about it. “I mean, shouldn’t we? Be better?”

Doctor Yin just shrugged. “Define ‘better’. Give more to charity? Say hi to strangers? Maybe being better is being kind to ourselves, feeling comfortable, allowing ourselves time and space to know who we really are.”

Harry thought of Malfoy, bent over a table at Rombe Pickle, where they had all pored over maps of the wards around wizarding Britain, comparing them to non-magical road maps and urban areas, determining where first contacts might occur, how they would be handled. The magic light had made his hair almost gold, his sunken eyes and too-sharp nose softened by the glow. 

Astoria challenged him to be the person he really was, Malfoy had said. His Patronus was a bumblebee, and he had failed so many times, but never once stopped trying.

“I like to be challenged,” Harry said. “I want to be.”

“All right,” said Doctor Yin. “Then let’s set about figuring out how to challenge you, shall we?”

Inexplicably, Harry felt hope brimming up inside him. Doctor Yin seemed like they might finally be the one.

“All right,” Harry said.

*

The Death Eaters were close on his heels, now; Harry could feel them. Every time he Apparated, there they were—they had to be tracking him. He Apparated to the Pallas Arch—if he could get inside the Academy, then they couldn’t follow him. Malfoy stood beneath the Arch, as though he had been waiting.

“Draco,” Harry said, relieved.

Malfoy drew his wand, and Harry looked behind him. No one was coming, and Harry realized what would happen only a moment before the curse hit him, a series of stinging cuts. “ _Protego!_ ” Harry shouted, before Malfoy could curse him again. The Fiendfyre broke across Harry’s shield in licking streams of flame.

Malfoy tried _Incarcerous_ next, then _Densaugeo_ ; Harry blocked these, then tried _Expelliarmus._ Just in time, Malfoy countered, his wandwork quick and efficient, just as he had learned, three years of training making him fluent in Defence. 

Wait.

“What are you doing?” Harry put down his wand. “You’re not a Death Eater.”

“Obviously.” Malfoy didn’t lower his wand, but Harry realized none of the spells Malfoy had cast had actually been harmful, and Death Eaters weren’t following him after all.

“Why are you attacking me?”

“Scared, Potter?” Malfoy smirked.

“No,” Harry said, but he had to move quickly to avoid another curse.

“Don’t you ever get bored, squaring off with children every day?” Malfoy fired off another spell, which Harry countered. “Don’t you wish you had someone who could match you—your speed, your strength, your skill?”

“Oh,” Harry said, countering another spell. “This is sparring.”

“If you want to call it that.” Malfoy popped out of existence and then back in, beside Harry now instead of in front of him, too fast to anticipate or predict. “Expelliarmus,” Malfoy said in his ear.

Surprised, Harry felt his wand rip out of his hand. He tried to retaliate physically, with hand to hand, but Malfoy was still too quick, dancing back, blocking the swing of Harry’s fist. “Accio wand,” Harry said, realizing too late that this was something he could do. Malfoy had already pushed him down, toppling Harry with his own weight, and maybe the Summon hadn’t worked, or something like that, because all Harry could think of now was the fact of Malfoy on top of him.

Malfoy’s knees were on either side of Harry’s hips, thighs straddling him. “Incarcerous,” Malfoy breathed.

Harry had had the wind knocked out of him, and now he was breathing hard. Malfoy’s warm hand was over Harry’s wildly thumping heart. “Beat you,” Malfoy said, smiling, and he was handsome. Harry had never noticed Malfoy was handsome—not even once; how could he have missed it? Everyone thought so—Rune, Fleur. George and Penelope didn’t think so, but they were obviously wrong—just look at him.

“Admit it, Harry.” Malfoy’s hair felt into his eyes, catching the light just so, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright with mirth and warmth. “This was exactly what you needed.”

Harry suddenly became aware that he had a cock, and Malfoy—flushed, triumphant—was straddling it.

“Oh,” Malfoy breathed, apparently becoming aware of it at the same time. “Was there something else you require, Harry?” Then he moved his hips, dragging his arse against Harry’s trousers.

“I don’t . . .” Harry gulped. How could this be happening? With _Malfoy_? 

“I can give it to you,” Malfoy whispered, rocking his hips again. “I notice everything you need, don’t I? And I always give it to you.”

Harry had never noticed before, but yes— _yes_ —that was—at least—partly—true . . . 

“Look at you.” Malfoy rocked against him insistently, his body hot and heavy—Harry was still bound, he realized. “It’s been a while since you’ve been fucked, hasn’t it?”

“The _Incarcerous_ ,” Harry said. 

“My poor Harry. Do you need me to take care of you?”

“I can’t move my arms.”

“You don’t need them.” Malfoy’s hips were rolling, now, rutting against him in their clothes.

“Malfoy, wait,” Harry said, impatient. “Just let me out of this—”

Malfoy laughed. “Aren’t you meant to be strong? Can’t you get out of it yourself?”

“No, I just . . .” Harry struggled, but he couldn’t move. “I just need to get out of this . . .”

“Our Chosen One.” Malfoy still had on his smirk. “Why don’t you get your Mudblood friends to help you?”

“Get _off_ me,” Harry said, pushing up with all his might, but he couldn’t move; Malfoy’s weight was on top of him; Malfoy was crushing him. “Get _off—_ ”

“This is from my father,” Malfoy said, then put a hand over Harry’s mouth and nose, and bore down.

Harry’s nose, which Malfoy had already broken once—long ago, in sixth year—closed.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move, and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t—

Gasping, Harry ripped the pillow from his face, then struggled with the bedclothes. He was tangled in them, the wet layer of sweat somehow making them more complicated. “Accio wand,” he said, and this time, it snapped into his hand. Banishing the covers, he was panting, covered in sweat. Still hard. “Accio glasses,” he croaked.

They came to him, but Harry didn’t want to put them on. He didn’t want to see. He wanted . . . Malfoy had given him something, for sleep paralysis. The potion was preventative; it had already happened. It had already happened. Harry wanted a cold shower. He wanted—

In that moment, Harry almost wished he could see Malfoy, because Malfoy wouldn’t do that to him. That Malfoy in the dream wasn’t real; it wasn’t the real Malfoy. Harry thought he might sick up. He wanted Hermione. He wanted Ron. He wanted to be with them, and he never wanted to tell them what he had dreamed. And Malfoy—how could Harry look at him? 

Forcing himself to put his glasses on, Harry stood up. Cast cleaning spells on himself, then the bed. A cooling spell as well. It helped with the throbbing between his legs, but he was still thick, still aroused. How could he still be hard, after that? Why wouldn’t his cock get the message? What was wrong with his body, that it could not understand his heart? Harry took a shower. When he closed his eyes under the room temperature spray, he saw Malfoy, that bright happy smile Malfoy had had, after he had defeated him in the sparring match at the end of last term. Opening his eyes, Harry did not close them again.

Afterwards, he felt better. It was just a dream. A weird sex dream. Nine months had passed, since Vinicius. Harry had gone plenty longer without. Maybe his body missed him.

He needed a project. Work at the Academy was interesting enough, but he still missed the puzzles of the Auror Department, the thrill. Did he want what Malfoy had said? Someone to match him? Someone to challenge him?

Rune had broken up with Malfoy at the end of summer. It had been in _The Daily Prophet. Witch Weekly_ had been in both mourning and celebration. _“The most famous couple in the Wizarding World has broken up,”_ George had read aloud. He seemed a bit obsessed with this. _“Welcome two available bachelors!”_ Harry had found it odd. Malfoy wasn’t available to witches. Fleur hadn’t been there to talk about Malfoy being well-made.

Finding the box Malfoy had given him, Harry skimmed Malfoy’s letter again to check on the name of the aquamarine potion in the long, thin vial. _“For waking after nightmares,”_ Malfoy had written. “ _This is a modification of Pepper Up. Instead of making you alert, it merely settles the chemicals activated within us that prepare us to sleep, and then also tamps down chemicals related to anxiety and fear. This way, you can slowly come fully awake without the hangover feeling of truly bad nightmares._ ”

The parchment Malfoy had written on was cream-coloured. His handwriting was so neat. For some reason, Harry tried to imagine Malfoy writing it, but could not. He could not imagine Malfoy’s desk or chair, or what he looked like when he was alone. Harry flipped to the end of the letter, because he remembered Malfoy had been kind. “ _I want you to sleep beautifully; I want your dreams to be all the good things you deserve. I’m sorry_ ,” the letter said, and reading this made Harry feel better. “ _Forgive me,_ ” it also said. “ _Thank you for you helping me._

“ _D.M._ ”

Harry’s thumb brushed over the ink. Last term, figuring out how to remove Malfoy’s Dark Mark had occupied his time. He needed something else like that. 

Teddy’s Order of the Phoenix was trying to put in place measures that would help the non-magical world integrate with the magical, whether there was a Deal or not. One measure was the educational facilities, where non-magical people could learn about magical people, and magical people could learn about non-magical. 

Putting the letter from Malfoy away, Harry took out a parchment, a quill. The educational facilities had only been mentioned in passing. They would need faculty, staff. They would need actual facilities. They would need classes, or at least some kind of structure—something like the Academy.

Something exactly like the Academy, which had a course on Magical Ethics, but didn’t even have Non-Magical Studies.

“Non-Magical Studies,” Harry wrote, then thought of all the courses at the Academy. Defensive Flying? Transportation. First Aid and Minor Magical Healing? Rune Photsi had mentioned how the magical world might improve non-magical medicine. Combat? Harry thought of non-magical guns. Maybe not the best idea. Maybe something more like History of Magic—Hogwarts courses. Harry took out another parchment, starting another list. 

_I want your dreams to be good things,_ Malfoy had written.

 _I’m sorry,_ he had written.

_Forgive me._

*

“And how is the Order of the Phoenix?” Doctor Yin asked five weeks later. “Lupin’s Order, not the Shacklebolts’. Or the new one in . . . is it Thailand?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “Rune Photsi.”

“Oh, well, obviously, he’s amazing.”

Right. He was kind of amazing, and more gorgeous than ever if wizard photos were any proof. Malfoy hadn’t seemed like he was paying attention when Rune’s Order had been discussed at the last Phoenix meeting. Then again, pretending not to pay attention was a trick of Malfoy’s.

“What are you,” Yin asked, “on your third Order meeting now?”

“About to have our fourth.” The Order meetings were going well. That wasn’t exactly what he wanted to talk about.

He and Yin had met every week since the first time. Though Yin was different than Kavika, they were growing on Harry. He wanted to be able to talk about this. “It’s . . . it’s good,” Harry said. “Our first non-magical members—besides Mark—came to Rombe Pickle last week.”

“Is that a juicery?”

Yin’s brows had shot up, and Harry laughed. “It’s where Teddy lives. With Andromeda Tonks. We couldn’t meet at the Higgledy Piggledy any longer; we’re breaking the Statute.”

“Oh, right. The non-magicals.” 

Harry nodded. This was something Harry rather liked about Yin—they didn’t really remember everything all the time. Talking to Yin was like talking to a friend who really wanted to keep up with you, but didn’t take notes on you or treat you like a pop quiz. “Higgledy Piggledy didn’t mind Mark—you could pass him off as magical, since he was just one bloke, but you get enough non-mags together . . . we didn’t want trouble.”

“Yet.”

Harry moved his hand over his fist. “Yet.”

Yin handed him the magic crystals. “You got that non-mag mind healer, right?” When Harry nodded, Yin went on, “Boy, wouldn’t I love to pick their brain. How do you even do mind-healing without Legilimens? Or even a Pensieve?”

“You and I don’t do Legilimens.”

“Right, but we could. And for patients with certain kinds of conditions, I do. What do they think, then?” Yin leaned forward. Today they were wearing a very intense suit, made from perhaps fifty shades of velvet. At least three quills and a biro were sticking out of their messy bun. “About Reveal?”

“The psychiatrist? They’re for it.” Harry twisted the crystals in his hands, feeling the magic that kept them spelled together. “We’re working on some of the legal things—non-magical people use a lot of personal identification numbers and papers, and there’s a lot to consider about how laws would align--currency. We need a goblin.”

“Isn’t that something the Ministry should be working on?”

“Right,” Harry agreed, “but even if the Deal does go through, there are a bunch of details to sort. They’ve spent so long arguing about the terms of the Deal that the actual logistics to make it happen haven’t really even been looked at yet.”

“Oh, you mean the impending travel crisis and economic meltdown when the non-mag world learns we can travel anywhere we want whenever we want—and, by the way, Summon most things we want?”

“Aren’t you meant to be my therapist?” Harry gave them half a smile. “You’re not meant to depress me.”

“I depress myself. Smoothie?”

“No,” said Harry, used to this by now. “Thanks.”

For the next minute or so, random fruits and vegetables floated from around the room to the broken-but-bespelled non-mag blender, and the loud sound of its blades whirling filled Yin’s study. Harry played with the crystals, and tried to say what he wanted to say. “Malfoy comes to the meetings,” he said.

Yin was focused on putting an entire banana in the blender. “Draco Malfoy? Former Death Eater Auror trainee?”

Harry nodded. He hadn’t mentioned Malfoy since their first meeting. 

There had been a reason for that. 

Realizing Yin couldn’t have seen his nod, Harry cleared his throat. “Yes.”

“He’s the one who gave you all those sleeping potions, right?” Yin added an avocado next. “How’s he doing?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, but the blade was whirring over his voice.

“Sorry.” Yin poured the smoothie into a jar, then turned to come back to their chair.

“He notices me,” Harry said, when Yin was sitting again.

Yin, who was in the middle of a sip, quickly gulped, then wiped their mouth. “What, in a bad way?”

“No,” Harry said. “Yes. He—he gets me water. He makes sure I’m not too crowded, or too hot. He sends these . . . these little breezes, or he makes sure my water is cold. He—he clears the dishes. He gives me the plate with the most chips.”

“That’s a lot of attention.”

“But it’s not,” Harry said. “I mean, it is, but it’s never—he never even looks at me, when he does it. Not anymore. I mean, he used to, but now it’s just . . . it’s just like he wants things to be a certain way for me, and I thought it was okay, but it’s not.”

“Did something change?”

Harry sucked in a breath, then looked around. “Actually . . . can I have some of that . . . is there any of that left?” He gestured at Yin’s smoothie.

“This?” Yin looked around too, as though another smoothie might materialize. “I’m sure there is. Glass!” they barked, which was how they Accio’d. Another jar floated into their hand, and they stood. “Never Accio a smoothie,” they added, digging through the detritus on the sidebar to find the old blender. “I learned that the hard way.”

They poured the smoothie, then handed it to Harry, heading back to their chair. “Thanks,” Harry said, taking the smoothie.

“Don’t think that’ll get you out,” said Yin. “I’m here for the dirt. What changed?”

“I’m . . .” Harry didn’t really want the smoothie, but he liked it in his hands. Yin had added ice, so it was cold—like Malfoy’s glasses of water. Harry set the smoothie on the crowded table to his right. “I had this dream.”

“Sex dream?” Yin said immediately.

“Er.”

“It just sort of sounded like you were going to talk about a sex dream. You had that sex dream voice.”

“There’s a sex dream voice?”

“I once had a sex dream about Nearly Headless Nick. I had that embarrassed ‘I can never talk to anyone again’ voice nearly all of sixth year.”

“I forgot you went to Hogwarts.”

“Ten years before you. There are four witch-wizards in the world, Harry. Don’t forget.” Yin sipped their smoothie.

“But . . .” Harry found himself picking up his smoothie. He put it back down again. Then he picked it up. “But did you _want_ to have sex with Nearly Headless Nick?”

“A sex dream doesn’t mean you want anything,” said Yin. “It’s just a dream.”

“Right.”

“It’s what you think about the dream that matters.”

Harry’s heart was pounding in his chest. His hands felt a bit sweaty; he used the cool smoothie glass to wipe them off.

“What do you think about the dream?” asked Yin, which was what Harry had been dreading.

He didn’t know what he thought about the dream. Initially, he’d dismissed it. Just his brain being strange. He’d dreamed stranger things.

The next day, however, he’d seen Malfoy in class, and he had remembered—in that way of dreams, the sudden dissonance of reality overlaid against something that wasn’t real but _felt_ just as true, and Harry had remembered Malfoy’s smile when Malfoy had defeated him in the sparring match. He’d looked so light, so free. He’d looked _good_ , but Malfoy wasn’t good-looking—was he? Harry didn’t think so, but now he felt unsure.

It had kept happening: seeing Malfoy, remembering the dream. Then remembering that moment with Malfoy above him, besting him, smiling down at him. Then remembering the way dream-Malfoy had ground his hips against him, the way dream-Malfoy had held him pinned, then leaned down to trail his breath against . . . but that hadn’t happened in the dream, had it? Was Harry remembering the dream, or was he inventing more of it?

Then Harry remembered the Malfoy who stepped on his face, when he was petrified under his cloak on the train. Malfoy had done it deliberately. “That’s from my father.” Harry remembered the Malfoy who had cast Imperius on Madam Rosmerta, the Malfoy who had, in the end, tried to sacrifice Harry to Voldemort and got Crabbe killed in the attempt.

“Not a trick question,” Yin said, and the very real quality of their voice as well as the light trace of humour in it snapped Harry back into the present. “Maybe you can tell me about the dream. If you want, I can tell you about mine with Nearly Headless Nick—but you might have to get a few extra therapy sessions after hearing about it, sorry.”

This was so very inappropriate that Harry felt strangely at ease, the way he hadn’t with all his other therapists besides Kavika. Telling them about the dream was easier as a result, even the part where dream-Malfoy pointed out Harry’s arousal, even the part where dream-Malfoy had been sort of humping him with his clothes on. Then came the part when dream-Malfoy turned into a past-Malfoy, the bully Malfoy that was not current Malfoy, but who was still alive in Harry’s mind.

“Wow, yeah, that was good,” said Yin, when Harry had finished. “But trust me, you’ve got nothing on my Nearly Headless Nick dream. Yours is like a picnic in the park in comparison.”

This seemed like a pretty insensitive reaction, for which Harry found himself truly grateful.

“You were okay with Malfoy’s acts of service before,” Yin went on, “but now you’ve had the sex dream, it feels kind of weird? Is that right?”

“I just . . .” Harry picked up the smoothie again. He’d put it down at some point. “I notice it more. I used to notice it, but . . .” Harry put down the smoothie. “He told me he was in love with me.”

Yin blinked at him. “Wow. You have a _story_ , don’t you.”

“It was years ago,” said Harry. “I don’t think he is any longer.”

“Why don’t you think that?”

“His Patronus changed. It used to match mine, but . . . and his Boggart changed.”

“His Boggart?”

“He was afraid of his own Patronus.” Harry waved his hand. “It was a thing. But then he . . . changed, and got a boyfriend, and even if he still . . . I don’t know, thinks of me, I don’t think it’s—it’s not the same anymore.”

“You do know that Patronuses don’t always take the shape of blokes you’re into, right?”

“Right, I didn’t mean he . . .” Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “The ‘acts of service’. It’s not a—he does it for Teddy. I’ve seen him do it for Teddy as well.”

“You’ve seen him send your godson little breezes?”

“It’s not—” Harry couldn’t think of what it wasn’t. “I mean, he did it for Rune, but it’s like—it’s like he decides to care about someone, and he—he just . . . it didn’t feel romantic. Before. I mean, at first it was embarrassing; I was embarrassed for him. But it didn’t feel . . .”

“Sexual.”

“It’s not sexual.”

“But now that you’ve had this dream,” said Yin, “you feel like you’re accepting something else when you accept a little breeze from him.”

That was it. That was it exactly, and Harry nodded, feeling rather miserable.

“And you don’t want to accept something else from him?”

“No,” Harry said, but then he touched the scar on the back of his hand. _I must not tell lies._ “Do you think he’s good-looking?” he blurted.

Yin’s brows went up. “I don’t think anyone is good-looking.”

Harry had been about to tell Yin that it didn’t matter; whether Malfoy was good-looking was beside the point. Whether Malfoy was good-looking should not at all be a part of a conversation about whether Malfoy could send him little breezes, and yet it felt important. Lately, it felt like a central question in Harry’s whole life. “Anyone?”

“Anyone,” said Yin. “Well, unless I know them. Then they’re dreamy.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, pulled out of his thoughts.

Yin shrugged. “I just don’t see it. What you’re meant to see. For me, there are like . . . maybe twenty faces. I sort people into face categories—that person’s blah with brown hair, that person’s blah with wide features, that person’s blah in a dainty delicate way; that’s all. But then you get to know them and it’s like—the corner of that person’s eye turns in such a way that it inspires the sun to rise in the horizon of their face.”

“Oh,” Harry said, then thought: _You mean, to you, Malfoy is goddamn gorgeous._ The knowledge of what he would think of Malfoy if he were Yin sat in Harry’s stomach like a heavy knot, burning in the places where the ropes of realizations rubbed against each other.

“Now I’m curious,” said Yin. “Do you think Draco Malfoy is good-looking?”

Harry thought of Malfoy, his lacklustre hair, cut so that it was short in back but fell into his eyes, now. All of those too-loose, too-worn jumpers, falling off the shoulder. His rodential jaw. His still pointy nose. The bags and shadows under silver eyes, the splotchy skin. “I don’t know,” Harry said, feeling strangely wounded by this. “His Boggart was his Dark Mark. He’s tried so hard to overcome it.” 

“Trying hard doesn’t make someone good-looking,” said Yin. “Unless you’re into that.”

“Is that something . . . people can be into?”

“People can be into anything. What are you into?”

“I . . . don’t know.” He thought of Ginny. He thought of Andre. He thought of Fiona, of Vinicius. They were all good-looking. Gorgeous, really—well, except he hadn’t thought Fiona was gorgeous at first. Her looks had grown on him. Why had they grown on him? She had been witty. Intelligent. Thoughtful. Extremely ambitious, and good at what she did. She had been a Healer, and watching her work had always made him a little hot. Like Ginny playing Quidditch. Like Andre building wizard houses. Competency. Was that something you could be into? “I like it when people are good at things,” Harry said at last.

“What is Draco Malfoy good at?”

“He’s . . . I don’t know.” Harry thought about it. “He’s good at all his classes—but that’s because he took Level One three times, and it’s not like he’s the best trainee I’ve ever . . . I don’t think I’m _in_ to Draco Malfoy.”

“Okay,” said Doctor Yin.

“Just,” Harry began again. “Whenever I think of . . . the dream, it’s not him I’m thinking of. It’s the person he _used_ to be, and that’s not who he is anymore.”

“You think you shouldn’t remember who he used to be?”

“I don’t bear a grudge,” Harry said. “I _thought_ I didn’t. I thought I was giving him a chance.”

Yin’s head tilted in a thoughtful way, their eyes kind, their lips turned down in an expression that seemed almost sad. “Harry. Giving someone a chance doesn’t mean falling in love with them. It doesn’t mean having sex with them.”

“I just mean, who he was shouldn’t matter to me.”

Yin’s eyes grew even more sympathetic. “Why shouldn’t it? You were hurt. If you broke both your legs, would you blame them if they hurt years after the fact?”

Harry hated this analogy. Yin didn’t understand at all. “That’s completely different.”

“Is it? Is only physical hurt allowed to linger?”

 _Oh_ , went Harry’s brain, and something shifted inside of it, not quite clicking into place. “I just meant . . . he’s a different person, now. It shouldn’t matter anymore. I should . . . maybe I would be attracted to him. If he hadn’t—if he wasn’t. Who he is.”

“You want to give him a fair shot at being your boyfriend?” Yin actually sounded a bit annoyed by this. Harry thought maybe mind healers weren’t meant to sound annoyed—Kavika never had, but something about Yin’s annoyance made him feel better, like they were a real person, with real reactions. “No one deserves to be your boyfriend, Harry. No one even deserves to be your friend. You get to _choose. You_ choose. It’s yours. Not anyone else’s. Do you know what Malfoy deserves from you? Nothing.”

Harry thought of Malfoy, that triumphant smile, with Malfoy on top of him. Malfoy frantically cleaning the wall, when Travers had been terrorizing Fairchild. Malfoy lifting his chin, facing Shacklebolt, saying, _I’ll do it._ Malfoy saving that non-mag man in Windermere Hall, Malfoy on the cover of _Witch Weekly. “Anyway, I’m gay._ Malfoy’s Notice-Me-Nots under the Timothy Tree, Malfoy asking, _“What can I do?”_ rather desperately in the loo. Malfoy with Teddy, Malfoy after Nyala’s Boggart, Malfoy fighting Fenrir’s followers in Diagon Ally, hugging Teddy violently in the aftermath.

“I don’t want him to have nothing,” Harry heard himself say.

“I meant nothing from you,” said Yin.

“I don’t want him to have nothing from me. I want . . . I want . . .” Harry looked down at his hands. _I must not tell lies._ He wanted his smoothie, which was melting. He picked it up again. “I don’t want to dismiss what he did to me—to us. What anyone did to us. I want to remember. I want to respect it. But I don’t want it to—I don’t want to be owned by that. I want to . . . allow for possibility.”

Doctor Yin looked at him, their dark eyes bright. “That’s very admirable, Harry,” they said at last. “Just keep in mind that possibility doesn’t have to be an obligation.”

“I know it’s not,” Harry said. “It’s hope.”

*


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to icmezzo and seraphcelene. Thank you to siemejay, who read this over, encouraged me, and made it far better than it was the first time. You are the best!
> 
> Thank you to all of you who have been patiently reading and waiting and to those of you who have left kind and thoughtful comments. I've read them all and treasured all the kind things that have been said, even though I haven't been in a place where it was easy for me to reply. <3

*

A dark autumn wandered into a slightly brighter December, a few bright, sunny days against a hard blue sky lasting for only a few hours before the lengthening nights. The longest of these nights was the night of the Auror holiday party, which found Harry and Ron standing quite close to the grand entrance.

“Are we expecting some sort of celebrity?” Ron asked.

“Hm?” Harry shifted his weight, shuffling because it was a little crowded on this side of the room. He didn’t love it.

“You keep watching the entrance. Are we waiting on someone?”

“Oh,” Harry said, looking at the entrance hall again. “It’s Teddy.”

“Because of Savage?”

Harry glanced back at Ron, who had been apprised of everything—the meetings for Teddy’s Order, Savage’s distrust of the Order, voiced in the first faculty meeting of the year and reiterated at every opportunity. “I wouldn’t put it past members of the Board to disapprove of Teddy’s Order as well,” Harry said.

“Teddy’s Nyala’s date?” Ron said, but Harry was turning back to the hall, where he was sure the small commotion suggested Teddy’s arrival.

A witch in violet blocked the view. Harry craned his neck, and the latest guests swept into the Grand Foyer. Harry’s mouth abruptly went dry.

Malfoy had on a pink shirt, magenta trousers, and what seemed to be a magenta cape, draped over one shoulder. On his arm, Astoria had a Mohican, eyes circled in absolute black; she was wearing a dress like a cloud, floating and shimmering. These clothes were ridiculous. They looked shockingly good. They both looked really gay.

Ron was saying something.

Harry turned back to him. “What?”

Ron gave him this understanding little smile that somehow looked sad. “I said, I’m sure Teddy can handle himself.”

“Oh, I know,” Harry said, turning back to see where Malfoy and Astoria had gone. They were already making their way through the room, greeting Fairchild and Mark, Achar—members of the new Order. “What?” Harry said, turning back to Ron again.

“I didn’t say anything,” said Ron.

“Oh.” Harry turned to look for Malfoy again.

“Maybe you could go talk to him,” Ron said.

“Who?”

“Malfoy.”

“Malfoy?” Harry turned back. “Why?” 

Ron shrugged. “I said we didn’t owe him. And we don’t. But . . . he’s good to have around.”

“I’ve already forgiven him,” Harry said, feeling a little defensive. He’d talked to Doctor Yin about this a lot.

“I’m not really talking about forgiving him,” Ron said. 

“Then what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the way you—”

Another commotion filled the entrance, the sound of the heavy outside door, the swish of robes, the murmur as people began to comment on the new arrival. Harry’s head whipped around. There, just as beautiful, with his slim hips, bright eyes, and messy hair, stood Rune Photsi, and Harry’s heart jumped into his throat. Someone must have invited him. Had Malfoy known Rune would be here?

Turning, Harry searched for Malfoy in the crowd. “I’m just going to go get a punch,” he told Ron.

“Sure,” said Ron, but something about his voice made Harry look at him again.

“What’s got into you?” Harry asked.

“Nothing. I’ll go save Hermione.”

This explained the worried look on Ron’s face, so Harry turned back into the other direction, back toward the wall where the punch bowl was, where there was a better view of the whole room. Would Rune have told Malfoy he was coming? Running into exes unexpectedly was always awkward, but Malfoy would have had no way to prepare for it. He would have thought Rune still in Thailand. Wouldn’t he have? Had they remained in touch? How broken-hearted had Malfoy been, when Rune had broken up with him?

“Harry?”

Harry’s heart dropped back from his throat into his chest, then continued a free fall into his stomach. Slowly, he turned around. “Vinicius.”

“Fancy meeting you here.” Vinicius flashed a dazzling smile, and he was still the best-looking bloke in the room besides Rune. And Ron.

“I work here,” Harry said, his voice stiffer than he meant it to be.

“Do you want to know where I work?” 

This was an invitation, warmly and freely made. Recognizing it, Harry gave him half a smile. “If it’s still with Robards, I’m not sure I want to know.”

“It absolutely is, one-hundred percent. And it’s got worse since you even last heard; let me tell you.”

Harry’s smile widened. “I let Ron tell me.”

“He doesn’t know half of it.”

“And you do?”

“Listen. Everyone knows Weasley is some kind of saint. Meanwhile, _I_ once invested in Knockturn Associates, read _The Wizard Watcher_ , and _might_ have voted Conceal.” Vinicius was about to rant, and this had always been fun. Despising everything Robards stood for was something they had always both had in common, even if Vinicius _did_ read _The Wizard Watcher_.

Harry huffed a laugh. “But _did_ you vote Conceal?”

Vinicius shook his finger at him. “A wizard never tells.”

“Literally all wizards tell,” Harry said. “Neville Longbottom voted Conceal.”

“Everyone knows Neville Longbottom is also a saint,” said Vinicius. “Meanwhile, _I_ was once seen with _several_ MACUSA officials who are now part of a very large non-magical conspiracy plot.”

“All right,” Harry said, smiling and unable to resist. “What are all the dirty secrets you’ve learned?”

Vinicius proceeded to regale him with various Departmental stories, each one of them infuriating but also highly entertaining, the way Vinicius told them. This hadn’t needed to be awkward, and Harry remembered why he had been with Vinicius in the first place. He was comfortable, easy to talk to, and there were precious few people like that in this tiny world. Rune Photsi had been easy to talk to as well, and after another ten minutes or so, Harry turned to look for him. Maybe Malfoy wasn’t so bad off.

Harry couldn’t find Malfoy amidst the crowd, but Rune was distinctly visible in black and gold robes that made him look like Hufflepuff’s fittest bloke since Cedric Diggory, except Cedric had been a child, and Rune was very noticeably a man. He was talking to someone, hands moving with his contagious enthusiasm, cheeks a bit dark with humour or pleasure.

“Well,” Vinicius said, breaking off his story, turning to follow Harry’s gaze. “I can see how he’s very distracting. He’s still remarkably fit. I think I might go give it a go, if you know what I mean.”

Harry glanced back at Vinicius, feeling somewhat uncomfortable with this phrase. “I thought you thought he was out of your league?”

“Malfoy? Excuse me, he is _directly_ in my league. Possibly even a notch below it.”

“No—” Harry began, but when he turned back to look, someone had moved, revealing the person Rune was talking to.

Malfoy was flushed also, his hair almost bright with the lights and all the pink in his cheeks and clothes.

Harry swallowed, somehow more uncomfortable now. “I meant Rune Photsi.”

“Still obsessed with that one, are you?” Vinicius looked amused. “Why don’t you give _him_ a go? He dumped Malfoy. You’re an upgrade.”

“I’m not an upgrade on Malfoy,” Harry said, gritting his teeth.

“I didn’t know the comparison would bother you!” Vinicius spread his hands to convey his innocence.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Harry said. “I meant—”

Vinicius was turning as someone else emerged from the entrance hall. Then more heads were turning, and Teddy was in the hall, Nyala on his arm. Teddy’s face was only Teddy’s, narrow and rather sharp, though his brow was broad. He wore a suit in the non-magical style, and Nyala looked gorgeous as always in green velvet. Harry quickly made excuses to Vinicius.

Harry had to get half-way across the room before he reached the entrance, and for a moment, the rest of the room seemed frozen solid. Everyone knew that Teddy had graduated Academy but then chosen not to be an Auror, taking several of the graduates with him on his path to creating the new Order of the Phoenix. A few Aurors had quit to join him, and people like Savage saw the Order as a rogue vigilante terrorist group hellbent on destroying magical institutions. No one was talking to Teddy and Nyala.

But then, before Harry could reach him, Malfoy was there, taller and more colourful than the sea of blacks and silvers and creams. Malfoy’s hair was brighter too, the lights and his colour choices doing favours against its dullness, and Malfoy was pulling Teddy in for a hug, and then Nyala too. Then Harry saw that though Malfoy was first, other members of the Order were there—Fairchild and Mark, Achar, Bennet.

Harry needn’t have worried. Ron was right; Teddy could take care of himself.

Thinking he would talk to Teddy when Teddy was a little freer, Harry looked around for Ron, who appeared to be trapped in a conversation with Gardenia Greengrass. “He and I have very important business to discuss,” Harry told Greengrass, pulling Ron’s arm.

“Of course.” Greengrass fluttered, always so eager to please the former Hero of the Wizarding World, even while her husband sought to constantly undermine him. Harry didn’t know how much Lionel Greengrass had told his wife about Harry’s defence of Draco Malfoy, who was still deeply reviled by the Greengrass family for his former engagement to Astoria. Frankly, Harry didn’t care to know.

“Thanks,” Ron said, as Harry continued pulling him away.

“It’s my job,” said Harry, snagging them mini-sausages rolls off a passing tray, then walking with Ron to be against a wall.

“I thought you taught impressionable youths Advanced Defence,” said Ron.

“My other job,” said Harry, eating his sausage roll.

“Oh, your other job.” Ron didn’t seem to think this funny. “Should I have saved you?”

“What do you mean?” Harry wondered if Ron was going to eat his sausage roll. He was just holding it, awkwardly, when usually Ron ate everything in sight.

“I saw you with Vinicius,” Ron said. “I was going to come over, but then it looked like you were getting along.”

“Oh,” Harry said, surprised, because he had already stopped thinking about Vinicius. Was he really going to try to get in Malfoy’s pants? Harry looked around to see if he could find them. 

“Are you looking for someone?”

“What?” Harry turned back to him.

Ron lowered his hand, as though he felt more comfortable with his hand by his side, but then remembered there was a sausage roll in it, and brought it back up. “Every time I’ve talked to you this evening, you’re always looking for someone.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Harry found his hand moving to his other hand, rubbing the scar on the back of his fist. “I was looking for Teddy. That’s not true. I was looking for Vinicius. And Malfoy. But I was looking for Teddy, before.”

“And Malfoy?” 

“Right, but only because he happened to . . .” Harry shuffled. His eyes fell on the sausage roll still in Ron’s hand. “Are you going to eat that?” 

Harry knew what was going on. He had a suspicion of what was going on. He had a suspicion that Ron had a suspicion of _something_ going on, that Ron had had this suspicion since he had heard Harry tell Malfoy how to do his Patronus over the Whisper Wire, but nothing was going on. If something was going on, Harry didn’t know what. He knew that he had had a dream, a sex dream, but Doctor Yin said that didn’t necessarily matter, and Harry knew that he had kept thinking of it since. He knew that he had thought of Malfoy sparring with him—Malfoy beating him, Malfoy over him with that triumphant smirk—more than once. But what was it? Sexual attraction? Desire?

When Harry thought about that, he thought of the person who had stepped on his face, who had tried to kill Dumbledore, who had let Death Eaters into Hogwarts; he thought of Death Eaters, who had killed Sirius and Lupin and Tonks and Fred. He thought of how Malfoy had let Luna be locked up in his basement; he thought of how Malfoy had watched his cronies torture Neville. He thought of Malfoy using the word Mudblood, over and over and over.

That wasn’t the person Malfoy was now. That didn’t change Harry’s scars, his memories, or his nightmares.

“Have it,” Ron said, putting the sausage roll into Harry’s hand.

“I don’t know,” said Harry.

“You just ate a whole one,” Ron pointed out.

“About Malfoy,” said Harry. “What you’re asking. I don’t know.”

Ron looked terribly interested while pretending he was interested at all. “What am I asking?”

“Who died?” said Nyala.

“The sausage roll,” said Teddy.

Startled, Ron turned, admitting Nyala and Teddy into their little circle.

“You’re not going to have it?” Nyala said, nodding at the sausage roll, still in Harry’s hand.

“Um. You can.” Harry gave the sausage roll to Nyala.

“Sweet,” said Nyala, taking a bite. “These are really good. But seriously, you looked like you were discussing matters of national security.” She took another bite, then paused. “Wait, _were_ you discussing matters of national security?”

“We were discussing Malfoy,” Harry said, having recovered enough to realize that the truth wouldn’t really hurt.

“Oh, Draco. He’s a matter of _inter_ national security,” said Nyala.

“I would say the threat level is low,” Teddy said, in his easy, laid back way.

“What threat level?” said Ron.

“Dunno, could be high,” said Nyala. “The bloke who dumped him is dancing with the fittest Auror in the room.”

“What?” said Ron, which Harry found extremely helpful.

“Rune Photsi.” Nyala waved a hand vaguely. “Dancing with Vinicius.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, but he didn’t know why. He really wasn’t interested in Vinicius any longer. Was he interested in Rune Photsi? Was _Malfoy_ still interested in Rune? How did it make Malfoy feel, knowing that the bloke who had dumped him was dancing with the bloke Harry had dumped? But that shouldn’t matter—it shouldn’t matter that Vinicius was Harry’s ex. Everyone dated everyone’s ex; this world was incestuous; there were twelve people in it—where was Malfoy? Harry turned to find him.

Oh God.

Ron had a point. Harry didn’t know what the point was yet, but Ron definitely had one, a very solid point.

“I don’t know why everyone’s so gaga about him,” Nyala added. “I never liked him much. Sorry, Harry.”

“Who?” Harry asked, feeling just a little overwhelmed.

“Vinicius.” Nyala frowned at him. “Are you all there, mate?”

Harry felt himself go hot. “I’m . . . distracted.”

“Malfoy has a problem with his ex-boyfriend dancing with people?” said Ron, asking the relevant questions.

“No,” said Teddy.

“What’s distracting?” Nyala asked.

_Malfoy_ , but Harry didn’t want to say it.

“Harry was worried Teddy would get crap for being here,” said Ron, saving the day as usual. He turned to Teddy. “Have you got crap?”

Teddy shrugged. “Only a moderate amount of crap.”

“From whom?” asked Harry, who wanted to hex anyone who even looked at Teddy in a way that was suspect, but generally refrained.

“Oh, the ones you’d expect,” Teddy said. “Though Instructor Savage used to like me.”

“And Lionel Greengrass had never said a word to you until tonight,” Nyala put in.

Teddy hitched a careless shoulder. “He’s upset.”

“About Astoria?” Harry scowled. “He thinks it’s _your_ fault she’s a founding member of the new Order?”

“Some pure-blood dads really do not want to blame their own children for their zany Revealer ideas,” Nyala said, plucking a glass of punch off a tray floating by them. “Not my pure-blood dad, though. Zabinis are equal opportunity.”

This quickly devolved into a discussion of which pure-blood children were rebelling against their more conservative roots, and why these figures still managed to wield more influence politically than non-mag-borns who had never been raised in a pure-blood culture to begin with. Not all of the influential “rebellious” pure-bloods were in Nyala’s or Harry’s generation, however; Arthur Weasley was one of the most popular advocates for Reveal, and he was seventy-three. Still, a few non-mag-borns had definitely made their place in politics, Hermione being the primary example. The coming year was a general election year, and Hermione planned to stand again against Fudge for Minister of Magic.

“This reminds me,” Ron said, glancing around. “I should check with Hermione. I likely have schmoozing to do.”

“Don’t schmooze, you lose,” said Teddy.

“Really?” Ron smiled wryly. “I haven’t noticed you’re much of a schmoozer, Teddy.”

“We all fight our different battles in different ways,” said Teddy.

“I fight mine with dancing,” said Nyala. The band was beginning their next song. “Can we?”

“Dance is a very important battle,” Teddy agreed, taking Nyala’s arm.

Ron and Harry watched them leave; then Ron turned back to Harry with a look of concern. “What we were saying before, did you want to say more?”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t have anything to say.”

Ron’s brow creased. “I have to find Hermione. Do you want to come with me?”

“I’m fine, Ron,” Harry said. “It’s just—I’m not . . . you don’t need to worry about me, or anything like that. It’s confusing. That’s all.”

Ron’s face went softer. “It’s okay to be confused.”

“I know.”

Ron glanced away, into the crowd, but he didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular. “I never thought I was going to be the person I am now,” he said finally, turning back to Harry. “I wanted to be—you know—tough. Impressive. Someone who . . .” Shrugging, he looked down at his hands. “I don’t even know what. It’s different than I expected,” he said, lifting blue eyes back to Harry’s. “Life is different.

“You said that when I quit the Aurors.” Harry wanted to touch his locket, but he didn’t do it.

“Yeah.” Ron shrugged, a little helplessly. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I know,” Harry said again. His hand moved over the back of his fist. “I sometimes don’t always know how, but I try. I’m trying.”

“I know.” Ron grasped his shoulder, squeezed, and let go. Then he was moving through the crowd, winding his way to Hermione, who always spent these holiday parties doing way too much politics.

Harry wandered along the back wall, closer to the floating trays of food, looking out into the crowd, pretending he wasn’t looking for someone in particular. The pretending stopped when Harry finally found him; Malfoy was with Astoria, dancing to the tune of the wizard band. They still looked striking in a way that Harry couldn’t easily define; perhaps it was that Malfoy’s shirt was so brazenly pastel, when wizard fashion had taken a turn for the shockingly drab. Perhaps it was Astoria’s Mohican, when her face was so delicate, and so many other witches had their hair up in curls and twists and turns. Whatever the reason, Harry found himself watching them, unable to look away.

Then the song ended, and Harry turned to a tray floating nearby that contained champagne. After picking up a flute, he turned to look for Malfoy again, but now the crowd had changed, couples separating and dispersing. Were Rune Photsi and Vinicius still dancing? Harry had forgotten about them, but now he looked for them. Instead, he found Malfoy again.

Lionel Greengrass had found Malfoy as well and was grabbing him by the arm. 

Before he had really thought about it, Harry was making his way across the room.

Greengrass was pulling Malfoy into an alcove, a haughty expression on his face. Malfoy allowed himself to be pulled, looking rather pale.

When Harry arrived before them, however, Malfoy was standing straight, a look of disdain in his face as he regarded Greengrass, who was ranting. “It’s a wonder you would even be seen with her, after the disgrace you have brought upon her—upon yourself.”

“See, I kind of think it’s you who brought disgrace on me?” Malfoy said, in his light, flippant way. “You’re the one who kicked me out of the family. Or was this some kind of complicated courtship ritual among pure-bloods? So sorry, I’m forgetting all of our lovely traditions.”

Greengrass sneered. “You aren’t fit for our traditions.” 

“Agreed,” Malfoy said instantly. “In fact, you probably shouldn’t even be seen with me.”

Greengrass drew himself up. “You will cease all contact with my daughter. I can see to it you do not graduate Academy.”

Malfoy inclined his head. “And that would be different from the last three years . . . how?”

“Hullo, Malfoy.” Harry held out the champagne flute to Malfoy. “I thought you looked like you could use a drink.”

Malfoy turned toward him, his eyes widening. He obviously hadn’t seen Harry standing there, and his voice dropped into a soft timbre. “Potter?” Blinking, he looked down at the proffered champagne flute. His cheeks grew pink; then he grabbed it.

Harry turned to Greengrass. “You didn’t manage to fail him last year. What makes you think you can this year?”

Greengrass’s expression only grew more arctic, but Harry thought it might be as incensed as he had ever seen him. “I don’t have to go through _you_ , Instructor Potter.”

“No,” Harry agreed. “Who do you think you might go through?”

“Why do you care, Potter?” Greengrass’s voice was a whisper, the insidious mist that crept inside your bones on a winter’s morning. “What is he to you?”

“My trainee,” said Harry.

Malfoy took a swift breath, and Harry turned to him. The champagne flute was gone, likely Banished. “Let’s go,” Malfoy said, putting his hand on Harry’s upper arm, then giving it a shove. “I don’t want Potter seen with you,” he added, explaining to Greengrass. “It would tarnish his image.”

“As though a pathetic creature like you wouldn’t tarnish anyone’s image.”

Harry had been going, following Malfoy’s direction, but now he stopped. “Malfoy isn’t pathetic.” 

Malfoy, who had been pushing him again, went still.

“Do you know he’s using my daughter’s _inheritance_ to pay for his little wizard-fight lessons?” Greengrass looked amused, sharing this bit of gossip. “He hasn’t a penny to his name.”

“What was Astoria going to use it for?” Malfoy bit back. “Dragon-back riding lessons? Another magic piano she doesn’t play?”

“You’re nothing without your father, your family, your connections. You’re nothing.”

Malfoy tossed his head. “More than you.”

“Come on,” Harry said, grabbing Malfoy’s wrist. “We don’t need to listen to this.”

“Excellent,” said Greengrass. “Go on and dance with him, if you’re so interested, Potter. Smear your name with his.”

Harry pulled Malfoy by the wrist, only letting go when they were in another part of the room, and Malfoy tried to wrest away. “What are you doing?” Malfoy demanded. “I had that under control.”

“Sorry,” said Harry.

Malfoy held his gaze, that still, eerie gaze he used to level at him all the time, as though watching too closely. “I’m able to defend myself,” he said, after several long moments.

“I know that.” Swallowing, Harry shifted his weight. “I wanted to defend you too.”

Malfoy’s eyes flicked to the ground, the stain of pink spreading down his neck. It didn’t do him any favours in the mauve and pink he wore. The splotchiness of his skin didn’t help, but Harry couldn’t help himself; he watched the blush spread. The vee of Malfoy’s rather frilly pink blouse was deep, and Harry could see the blush spread down over his collarbones, and under, contrasting prettily with the delicate chain that clasped his ridiculous mauve cape. Malfoy was wearing women’s clothes, Harry was pretty sure. “He didn’t mean what he said,” said Malfoy.

“What?” asked Harry, jerking his eyes up.

“About dancing.” The blush was fading, and Malfoy’s voice had turned airy. “Everyone knows you don’t dance with trainees.”

Harry tried to puzzle this out.

“Joke,” Malfoy said. “Everyone knows you don’t dance at all.”

“I dance with Hermione.”

“She’s not a trainee.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said, trying to wrap his brain around this. “Are you saying you want to dance?”

“No. Obviously not. You don’t dance with trainees. But if you did, that would certainly be a way of showing Greengrass, wouldn’t it?”

“Um,” said Harry.

“I know he invited you to dance with me.” Malfoy’s voice came rapidly. “It might, upon first inspection, seem that obliging him wouldn’t serve for spite—but you must be aware, he was taunting us. He knew you wouldn’t actually dance with me.”

“You think I wouldn’t dance with you?”

“Because I’m a trainee. Obviously. And you’re Harry Potter,” Malfoy added carelessly, waggling his fingers in a frittering gesture.

“Malfoy,” Harry said slowly. “You really think I wouldn’t dance with you because I’m Harry Potter?”

“What? No. I mean—it seems very likely you can’t dance. Obviously, you’re very skilled in hand-to-hand combat; I suppose this requires some coordination, but—it seems very likely—that’s all you know how to do. No doubt you would turn dancing into a sparring match. Your opponent would never stand a chance. You’d tread their feet to tatters. It’s no wonder you never venture out onto the—what are you doing?”

Harry was holding out his hand. “Dance with me.”

Colour blossomed again in Malfoy’s cheeks. “Why?”

“So I can tread your feet to tatters. Obviously.”

“You’re my—an instructor.”

“It’s a party, Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, and for a moment, Harry was reminded of the way Malfoy used to look at him. Then Malfoy seized Harry’s hand, saying suspiciously, “Do you really know how to?”

“It’s been a while,” Harry confirmed. “Maybe you can be _my_ instructor.”

Malfoy’s cheeks went redder, but that was because Harry was flirting with him. Harry _knew_ he was flirting with him, but maybe it wasn’t fair to Malfoy, who had loved him once. But then Malfoy was guiding Harry’s hand to his waist, and Malfoy’s shirt was silk. Harry could feel Malfoy’s skin through the thin pink material, and it didn’t feel confusing. It felt hot, searing hot, and only then did Harry realize his mistake.

Malfoy had said that dancing would be like _sparring_.

But it was too late, and Malfoy was taking his hand, sweeping them onto the stone of the dance floor. His other hand came to rest on Harry’s upper arm, not quite in the usual position for the pure-blood style of waltz, which was meant to be between a man and a woman. Light pressure of his hands guided Harry where to go, his grip on Harry’s hand firm and strong, the touch of his hand on Harry’s arm a warm squeeze. His body was so close that Harry could feel the heat of him, shimmering between them, the hazy air on the horizon of a desert. His thighs once brushed Harry’s.

Oh God.

Harry had dreamed of this, Malfoy moving against him, confident and sure, Malfoy attuned to his every need, Malfoy responsive to his every desire. Why had he dreamed of this? Why Malfoy, when there were other people who were just as good, who had never hurt him?

The long cord of muscle in Malfoy’s neck made an elegant shape from throat to ear, prominently displayed because Malfoy’s face was angled away—a sharp jaw, a distinct lack of cheekbone, and Harry wanted Malfoy to look at him. He wanted to see the look of triumph Malfoy had given him when they had sparred, but he didn’t know why. He didn’t know why he wanted Malfoy to smile, his eyes bright with pleasure, his face flushed with exhilaration.

“I don’t think I’m better than you,” Harry heard himself say.

Malfoy’s head jerked back, his eyes rather large.

“You said I wouldn’t dance with you because I’m Harry Potter,” Harry said.

“You would probably dance with a house-elf, if you thought it would free them.”

“You think I’m freeing you?”

“From the shackles of pure-blood condemnation? Well—you’re probably not freeing me from Greengrass. The only opinion Lionel Greengrass cares for is that of Lionel Greengrass. But _some_ pure-bloods still regard you as influential.”

“You think I’m dancing with you . . . to make a political point?”

“Aren’t you?” Malfoy inclined his head—an arrogant gesture, but it set off his neck again, and Harry was too intensely aware of how thin the silk of Malfoy’s shirt was. It was almost like touching Malfoy’s skin, burning hot and soft. 

“What if I want to dance with you?” Harry heard himself say.

“What if Lionel Greengrass wanted to support Reveal?”

“I’m serious.”

“About what?”

“I want to dance with you,” Harry said. 

Malfoy’s eyes had been looking through him, a bit; now they snapped back, boring holes through Harry’s.

“It’s nice,” Harry said.

“Does this mean . . . ?” Malfoy cut himself off.

“What?” Harry squeezed the hand at Malfoy’s waist, encouraging. If Malfoy asked, Harry would probably say yes. 

“Are we friends?”

Harry’s heart did a hard thump, and he recognized it as embarrassment—for himself, this time. He had been thinking about sex. Friendship hadn’t occurred to him.

“Yeah,” Harry said, loosening his hand on Malfoy’s waist. “I think we’re friends. Don’t you?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Malfoy’s voice was breezy once again. “I suppose. If you want to be.”

Harry was surprised into a chuckle.

A gleam of triumph sparked in Malfoy’s eye. “I’m terribly witty, you see,” he went on. “Everyone wants to be my friend.”

Harry kept his smile. “Sure.”

Malfoy smirked, and he wasn’t good-looking—not like in the dream. In the dream, every imperfection had been removed, his skin clearer, his hair shining, his cheekbones higher. And yet—Harry didn’t mind looking at the real version. He didn’t mind it at all. “And I’m an exquisite dance partner,” Malfoy went on.

“Also true.”

“And I’m the best trainee you’ve ever had.”

“That’s pushing it.”

“Second best. After Teddy.”

“Teddy was not my best trainee.”

“Scandalous, Harry! He’s your godson.”

“I don’t play favourites.”

“Shocked,” Malfoy muttered, but he didn’t sound as amused anymore. His face angled away. 

If Harry had moved his hand a little bit, he would have been able to feel the small of Malfoy’s back, that sweet space that held the curve that swelled into Malfoy’s arse, the powerhouse of muscle for Malfoy’s long legs. Harry could press into that space of back, pulling Malfoy against him, his whole body, lithe and strong and bending to his will, but Malfoy could take control easily, if he wanted. Malfoy could do anything he wanted; his mind, once made up, produced a will of iron. Malfoy did what he decided to do, and oh God, it really was exactly like sparring.

They moved in sync across the floor because Harry could anticipate what Malfoy would do, how he would move, and Malfoy could anticipate him. Each movement was a response to the last, physically coordinated and exhilarating. The only difference was that this was collaboration, instead of antagonism; creation, instead of destruction. Malfoy knew Harry’s body, Harry realized, and it made his heart beat so hard that he was afraid Malfoy would feel the sweat of his palms. They had never been this close before, except when they were sparring. 

And except when Harry was saving him from the Fiendfyre, right after Malfoy had tried to turn him over to Voldemort. 

Something stalled in Harry’s brain.

“Did you see that Rune and Vinicius Souza were dancing?” Malfoy said suddenly.

“Yes,” Harry said, but then couldn’t think of what else to say. His brain was still stuck.

“Does it bother you?”

“No,” said Harry.

“Oh.” Malfoy looked away again.

Surely there were people as kind and brave and thoughtful and funny as Malfoy was, people who had never been a bigot or tried to hurt anyone, and yet—Malfoy moved so gracefully. His skin was so warm. He’d beat Harry in a duel—a sparring duel, but a duel, nevertheless. Teddy loved him.

Harry felt relieved when the song ended, and Malfoy abruptly dropped his arms, taking his hands away from Harry’s body.

“Good show,” Malfoy said, stepping away.

“Malfoy,” Harry began, then realized he was going to say something like, _Do you still have feelings for me?_ and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Listen,” Malfoy said, but then just stared at him. “Listen.” Malfoy tried again. “I’ve got to find Astoria, make sure her paragon of a father isn’t terrorizing her. Do you . . . ? You could come with.”

“Come with you to make sure Astoria’s father isn’t terrorizing her?”

“Astoria can take care of herself,” Malfoy said quickly. “All right, Potter. I’ll see you around.” Malfoy turned from him, presenting his straight back, square shoulders, the haircut that was so short in back, it made the hairs against his scalp look soft to touch.

Harry felt like he should tell him to wait, but he didn’t know. He didn’t know what he felt. What if that one therapist had been right? What if there was a _one_ , and Malfoy was it, and it wasn’t meant to matter that Harry had been bullied and hurt and mistreated, that Malfoy had been the bully, that Malfoy had meted out the hurt and mistreatment? 

Was that even what stood in the way?

A hand extended into Harry’s line of vision, holding about three sausage rolls. “I thought you might need food,” said Ron. “And champagne.” His other hand appeared with flutes; Harry couldn’t tell whether they had been Summoned, or Ron had had them all along.

“Thanks,” Harry said, taking a sausage roll and one of the drinks.

“Don’t mention it,” said Ron.

*

New Year’s Eve at the Burrow passed like many other New Years’ Eves, the children and some of the adults setting off the firecrackers in the yard, the rest of the family talking politics on magically warmed couches and chairs as they watched the show. This year’s conversation, as it had the past four years, revolved around the Deal, but in the coming year there was also the election to consider. Though the vote itself would take place before Reveal was scheduled to occur, the new Minister of Magic would not officially begin until after, which meant that as things stood, Fudge was in complete control of the Deal.

Hermione, who had realized that any campaign event she might attend that evening would have about as many witches and wizards total as the Burrow, was spending the evening with them, despite her packed schedule these days. Harry felt like he hadn’t seen her in months, so when the others began to drift off to watch the firecrackers as midnight neared, he looked forward to the chance to talk to both her and Ron. Apparently feeling the same way, Hermione cast a Notice Me Not—everyone knew they were there, so they would be easy to find, but people would have to actively be looking.

“I’m tired of hearing about the election,” Hermione said, by way of explanation.

“No,” Harry said. “You’re really not.”

The corner of Hermione’s mouth pushed in, a small smile. “Okay, you got me. But I do want to hear about you.” She nudged him with her shoulder.

Harry rubbed the scar on the back of his hand. _There’s not much to tell,_ he wanted to say, but it wasn’t true. There was too much to tell. “Doctor Yin is great,” he said finally.

The side of Hermione’s mouth went in deeper. “But did they make you talk to a llama?”

“It was an alpaca.”

“I still think I would’ve talked to the alpaca,” said Ron.

“You were also a fan of Trelawney,” Hermione said. “Let’s not forget.”

“When you say fan,” said Ron.

“I say different things work for different people.” Hermione turned her smile on Ron. “Alpacas work for you.”

“I’m glad Yin is working for you, Harry,” Ron said.

Hermione turned back to Harry. “Anything come out of it you want to talk about?” 

Harry rubbed his scar some more. Realized he was doing it, stopped. Then started again. “I keep thinking about . . . I’m not sure anymore. About the Academy.”

“What aren’t you sure about?” asked Ron.

“Working there,” said Harry.

Ron just looked stunned. Hermione scowled in confusion. “You love it there.”

“I don’t know.” Harry rubbed his hand some more. “I’ve been thinking . . . could I do more good? Somewhere else.”

Hermione’s scowl faded, but her eyes were still sharp, appraising. These were her politician eyes, not her friendly Hermione eyes. Harry loved them just as much. “Okay,” she said slowly.

“We always support you,” Ron said, leaning in beside her.

“Yes.” Hermione’s tone was still measured. “Would leaving the Academy make you happy?”

“I don’t know.” Harry looked away. “Maybe that’s not as important as—”

“Harry,” said Ron.

When Harry turned back, they were both looking at him. He knew they meant to be accepting, but they also looked so, so disappointed. “I don’t know,” Harry said again. “I don’t know that it’s making my happy right now. That working for—that being at a place that . . . The Aurors . . .” Harry looked reluctantly at Ron, who shook his head.

“Don’t look at me, mate,” said Ron. “I know what they are.”

“Robards will not always be in charge of the department,” said Hermione.

“Sure,” said Harry. “When?”

“It’s an election year,” Hermione said. “A new Minister for Magic would appoint a different Head Auror.”

“If you get elected,” Harry pointed out. 

“So what? You’re just going to give up?”

Ron put his hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “It’s not giving up if you really want to quit. You don’t have to stay at the Academy if you’re not happy, Harry.”

“Oh!” Hermione’s stern look fell away. “Of course, Harry. I didn’t mean—I just want you to be happy.”

“I know,” Harry said.

“Everyone is saying Teddy’s Order is going to destroy the Force.”

“Everyone?” said Ron.

“Obviously, not everyone,” Hermione said hastily. “I meant—Revealers, anti-purists. My voters, essentially. How do I convince them we need all of it? We need the Ministry; we need the Aurors, and we need the activists on the outside who will always push us to be more, to be better.”

“Maybe,” Harry said.

“What?” said Hermione, looking shocked. “Harry.”

Harry rubbed the back of his hand. “I just mean . . . maybe we can have something better than what we’ve got. The Ministry didn’t help us when we were kids.”

“But we can make it _better_ ,” Hermione said, obviously distressed by this.

“I didn’t mean we couldn’t,” said Harry.

“When we were kids,” Ron said, “we had to do a lot of fighting alone. You in particular, Harry.”

“Yes!” Hermione agreed enthusiastically. “We were alone, then. It’s different now. There’s a lot of support on our side. With a Minister for Magic who can replace Robards, who can manage Reveal, who can institute reforms—we could do so much.”

“I agree,” Ron said, “but what I was trying to say is—we started the DA by ourselves. But Harry, I was never sure you did it because you wanted to. I thought you did it because you had to.”

“I did have to.”

“Right,” said Ron. “But you don’t now.”

“Oh, Ron.” Hermione squeezed Ron’s knee.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” Ron said. “Because we’re here. And Hermione’s supporters are here. And you can—we can all—we can do what we want. We deserve to do what we want.”

“Yes.” Hermione’s voice was just as eager as before, but with a softer tone now, tender. Her eyes were a little damp. “I didn’t mean to say . . .”

“It’s okay,” Harry said, because he hadn’t felt like Hermione was telling him what to do.

“The question is,” Ron said, “what do you want?”

_To make a difference_ , Harry wanted to say, because he had always wanted that. It had nearly killed him several times, and Kavika had been the one to help him see that he didn’t need to die to save the world. Not again, anyway. She’d helped him to understand that his own happiness was important. The problem was, sometimes when he thought of happiness, now, he thought of Draco Malfoy, and yet thinking of him made him remember all the misery of those early years, everything that had been wrong with that world, what was still wrong today.

And then there was Malfoy now, kind and thoughtful and generous, so good and trying so hard, someone who should get to have love, who should get to have success, who should get to have a chance in this world. Harry always felt caught between the two: fighting for a better world, and fighting to live a normal life in the world he had helped to change.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I don’t know what I want.”

“That’s okay,” Hermione said. Putting her arm around him, she hugged him. “Harry, that’s okay.”

The fireworks went off above them, and Harry held Hermione close.

*

“It’s fine to not know what you want,” said Doctor Yin.

Harry was a month into the new year and no clearer on answers. At the start of the new term, he had done the Boggart exercise with the Level Ones, just as he did every year. Many of the trainees’ Boggarts had been some form of Reveal, which at this point was understandable. Reveal as Hermione had always proposed it was a gradual, years’ long process, but under the current Fudge administration, Reveal was looking more and more like a looming threat. Without a Deal, Reveal would happen suddenly, without warning, endangering the non-magical and non-magical-born people it sought to liberate from the secrecy of the Statute.

“I don’t feel fine, is the problem,” Harry said, playing with the crystal puzzle, frustrated with it already. He set it down with a clunk on one of Doctor Yin’s crowded shelves. “I don’t want to not know what I want. I want to know what I want.”

“That’s fine as well,” said Doctor Yin.

“It doesn’t feel fine,” Harry said.

Yin just seemed to take this in stride. “All right. Let’s find out what you want.”

“How?”

“I didn’t say it would be easy,” said Yin. “Let’s take it apart, piece by piece. There seem to be a number of things you want and don’t want, or are not sure you want.”

Harry frowned. “You’re talking about Malfoy.”

“Oh,” said Doctor Yin, as though they had not known this all along.

“I danced with him,” Harry said. “At the holiday party.”

“Yes,” Yin said, because Harry had told them that almost straight after it had happened. “And you liked it. Is it safe to say you want him physically?”

Harry thought of Malfoy, straddling Harry when he had bested Harry in sparring; Malfoy’s face when he talked to Teddy, the heat of Malfoy through that silk shirt at the holiday party. These thoughts alone made him think of sex; he could have got hard, if he had let himself dwell on them. “Yes,” he said finally.

“Yeah,” said Yin, exactly as though they had known this and had just been waiting for him to say it. “So the question is, do you want him emotionally?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, frustrated. This was the whole problem, wasn’t it? He didn’t know. Nevertheless, he attempted to put in the effort to explain. Kavika used to say that putting things in to words could help you understand yourself; it seemed that Yin worked on the same principle. “When I think of him, I want . . . I want to . . . he makes me feel safe. Everything will be taken care of. And then . . . and then—it’s _Malfoy._ ”

“He also repels you?”

“No.” The forcefulness with which this answer came to Harry felt as though it should have made everything so much simpler. “He doesn’t. Not at all. But there’s . . . it’s like, there’s something in my brain that can’t—it can’t get over who he was. Even though he’s a different person now.”

Yin’s brows went up. “He’s still Draco Malfoy.”

Harry shook his head. “He’s grown. He’s changed. I can see that. I can forgive him. But that’s—that’s why I can’t . . . . The thought of . . . of . . .” Harry couldn’t even bring himself to say it.

“The thought of having sex with him?”

“It feels like I would be hurting myself!” Harry said, startling himself. “It feels like it would be unfair to me, to that person I was, who was hurt, to the person _he_ hurt. He was the one who hurt me, and my friends. He was cruel.”

“But you still want him,” said Doctor Yin.

“It’s fucked up.” Harry put his hands in his hair. He wanted to yank it all out. “I know it’s fucked up.”

“That’s not fucked up.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Okay,” said Doctor Yin. “It is fucked up. It’s also normal.”

“How is this—in any way—normal?”

“Because people often want things that might be dangerous for them,” said Doctor Yin. “For some people, that’s part of the attraction. For others, it presents a serious conflict.” Standing up, Doctor Yin came beside him, close, but not touching. “Consider this, Harry. To love, to desire—these actions make us vulnerable. Friendship, sex—they are about opening yourself, letting someone else inside you. Of course, there would be a part of you that would be reluctant to do that with someone who has hurt you.”

“But I believe that people can change.” Harry’s hands had come down out of his hair, and he felt like he was pleading with them, somehow, for something. “I believe he has changed. It’s the—it’s the best thing I believe. The most important thing. It’s why I—it’s why I teach at the Academy; it’s why I wanted to be an Auror; it’s why—it’s why dying to win the war was worth it, because I thought that we could change. I thought we could be different than we are.”

“You are different than you were, Harry.” Yin’s voice was soft. “I’m different than I used to be. We can grow and change, and still remember the hurts we have felt.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m . . . he doesn’t even want me anymore. Not the way he used to. And even if he did, he’s my trainee. I would never—even if he’s my own age—not with a student. I could never. I don’t know why it seems so important . . .”

“To know what you feel?”

Harry nodded.

“It’s a cliché, but knowledge is power, Harry. Knowing what you want can help you make decisions elsewhere.”

This sounded wise, now that they had said it. Previously, Harry wouldn’t have supposed that thinking about leaving the Academy could have anything to do with Draco Malfoy.

“Do you want to try an experiment?” Doctor Yin said.

“Okay,” said Harry, because he was fairly certain that despite Doctor Yin’s eccentricities, the experiment would probably not involve alpacas or other live animals. Perhaps it would involve taxidermy ones.

“Select a memory of Malfoy,” said Yin. “Not a recent one—one from the old days. Preferably something that makes you feel like you would be doing an unkindness or injustice to yourself if you went out with him.”

Harry frowned, but not because he didn’t know where this was going. Even though the first time Harry had reviewed a memory with Kavika, he hadn’t been sure what the point was, he had soon come to learn that reliving things could be helpful. Even though he remembered the past, walking through it now as an adult could bring new things to light. The problem was, there were just so many memories to choose from.

As Harry thought about it, Yin rummaged about a crowded shelf, moving a statue of a faerie, an old-fashioned oil lamp, a few leather-bound books and what looked like a non-magical type-writer, before pulling out an old, dusty bowl. When Yin tapped it clean with their wand, Harry saw that the bowl was a Pensieve. “Got the memory?” they asked.

“I guess,” said Harry.

“Stick it in.”

Harry did so, finding the memory he had chosen, one that had come to mind recently. Spooling it onto his wand, he directed the memory into the pool.

“All you need to do is watch the memory,” Yin said. “Nothing besides that. Do you want me to come with you?”

Harry thought about it. “Okay,” Harry said.

Yin smiled, and they put their heads in the Pensieve.

*

“Potter, precious Potter,” Malfoy was saying. “Obviously, he wanted a look at ‘ _the Chosen One,_ ’ but that Weasley girl! What’s so special about _her_?”

“A lot of boys like her,” said Pansy Parkinson. She was stroking Malfoy’s hair as Malfoy lay across two seats of the train, his head in her lap. Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini all looked on. “Even you think she’s good-looking, don’t you, Blaise, and we all know how hard you are to please.”

“I wouldn’t touch a filthy little blood traitor like her whatever she looked like,” said Zabini.

“I don’t see you,” Yin said.

“I’m there,” Harry said, pointing to the luggage rack, then explaining how he had snuck into the train compartment behind Blaise Zabini after the first meeting of the Slug Club on the train in sixth year. Malfoy, Parkinson, and Zabini all continued talking. Harry could see that underneath Malfoy’s veneer of indifference, he was angry he hadn’t been invited to Slug Club. Harry wasn’t sure whether he had understood at the time that this anger was a result of hurt feelings, but he probably had. Harry hadn’t ever misunderstood Malfoy, not really. He’d known from the beginning that Malfoy was insecure, jealous and vulnerable. Meanwhile, _Malfoy_ hadn’t seen his _own_ insecurity, and feeling bad about not being recognized for something you hadn’t earned in the first place had never resonated with Harry to begin with. 

“Well, you never know,” Malfoy was saying. “I might have—er—moved on to bigger and better things.”

Pansy stopped stroking his hair. “Do you mean— _Him_?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Mother wants me to complete my education, but personally, I don’t see it as that important these days. I mean, think about it. . . . When the Dark Lord takes over, is he going to care how many O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s anyone’s got? Of course he isn’t. . . . It’s going to be all about the kind of service he received, the level of devotion he was shown.”

“And you think _you’ll_ be able to do something for him?” asked Zabini. “Sixteen years old and not even fully qualified yet?”

“I’ve just said, haven’t I? Maybe he doesn’t care if I’m qualified. Maybe the job he wants me to do isn’t something you need to be qualified for.”

“He’s talking about killing Albus Dumbledore,” said Harry. 

“Do you think he wanted to do it?”

Harry looked at Malfoy, who was telling the others to get their robes on. Crabbe, Goyle, and Parkinson were all looking at Malfoy with a tinge of awe, and Malfoy looked like he relished the attention. “I think he wasn’t thinking about the reality of doing it,” Harry said. “I think he wanted to impress his friends.”

The train in the memory was coming to a halt, and Goyle was throwing open the door, pushing his way into a crowd of second years. Crabbe and Zabini followed. “You go on,” Malfoy told Parkinson, who was holding out her hand for him. “I just want to check on something.”

Parkinson exited the corridor, and Malfoy closed the compartment door. Then he pretended to fetch something from his trunk, and Harry could see his younger self peeking out from the Invisibility Cloak. “ _Petrificus Totalus_!” Malfoy shouted.

The Invisibility Cloak slipped off as Harry crashed to the floor at Malfoy’s feet, still curled into his hiding position.

“I thought so.” Malfoy’s voice was triumphant, but nothing like the softness of his voice when he had bested Harry in sparring. “I heard Goyle’s trunk hit you. And I thought I saw something white flash through the air after Zabini came back. You didn’t hear anything I care about, Potter. But while I’ve got you here . . .”

Malfoy lifted his foot, then brought it down hard on Harry’s face, which instantly began to bleed from the nose in a shallow spurt.

“Oh,” said Yin, covering their mouth, pity welling in their eyes.

“That’s from my father,” Malfoy said. “Now, let’s see . . .” Pulling the cloak from under Harry’s body, Malfoy threw it over him. “I don’t reckon they’ll find you till the train’s back in London,” Malfoy said. “See you around, Potter . . . or not.”

The memory ended, swirling into grey. Harry and Yin pulled their heads out.

“Did you go all the way back to London?” said Yin, aghast.

Harry shook his head. “Tonks found me. She fixed my nose, then sent a message. It got intercepted by Snape; he let me back into school.”

“Oh, Harry.” Warmth welled up in Yin’s eyes.

“Ron saw Malfoy miming it,” Harry said. “Him stomping on my face. Malfoy always wanted to show off for his friends.”

“That’s awful,” said Yin. “You must have been so frightened, lying there.”

“It’s weird,” Harry said, thinking about it. “I don’t remember being frightened. I remember feeling stupid. It was so stupid, being stuck like that; it was . . . embarrassing. I was embarrassed. I don’t even remember my nose hurting; I remember thinking it was an embarrassing way to be found. I remember being angry that Tonks had found me like that. I remember being glad that Ron hadn’t laughed at me, when I told him.”

“Do you think this anger and embarrassment had anything to do with the pain or fear it caused you?”

Harry bit his lip, trying to think about it, trying to remember. “I just don’t remember pain. I remember _hating_ him. Malfoy. Hating him more than I had ever hated him.”

“It’s a vulnerable position to be left in.” Yin’s voice was gentle. “Bleeding. Invisible. Unable to move. What do you think Malfoy thought of it?”

“I don’t think he thought of it. I think he thought—it was funny. It was a joke. And the more pain or mortification it caused me, the better.”

“Yeah.” Yin’s face was still. “Think about that the next time you see Malfoy.”

“What?” Harry recoiled, and Yin quickly shook their head.

“It’s not a mechanism to make you dislike Malfoy as he is now,” Yin said. “It’s a mechanism to compare the person you once knew and the person you know now in a clearer way. You may find by comparing the memory with the real thing, you can leave the past behind—or you may instead find that the past is still with you. If it’s still a part of you, it may not be something healthy to part with—it may be healthier to find a partner who isn’t Draco Malfoy. Either way, you wanted to find out.”

Harry stared at them. He had. He had wanted to find out. 

The only thing left to do was try.

*

That night Harry had bad dreams. In them was someone he desired, someone who made him ache, but every time he touched them, he began to bleed. At first the cuts were little, as though the person were a parchment and he was too sharply swiping his finger against the edge of them. He ignored the scratches, thinking he was only being careless, but then the wounds grew deeper. “You’re hurting me,” Harry told the person.

“It’s not me!” the figure said in reply, so panicked and desperate to be believed that Harry thought they must be telling the truth.

He looked down at the top of his hand—blank, smooth skin. Slowly, a laceration appeared, a straight line, followed by two curves, then another curve, then a shape like a snake. _I mus . . ._

_I must not tell lies._

“That was already there,” the person said. “I didn’t do it! I swear!”

The person wasn’t hurting him, Harry realized. Rather, wounds he had already been given were reopening, all his scars unhealing. The person, the figure that he loved, was wearing a white shirt. Red appeared on it in a wide swath, sudden, a stain. The shirt was soaked in red. “I promise, it’s not me!” the person cried.

Harry looked to the right. Large letters, written in blood, were dripping from the walls. _I must not tell lies._

“Scourgify!” the person shouted frantically, holding the front of their shirt. Their viscera were spilling out. “Scourgify! Scourgify! It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me!”

“You failed sigils,” Harry told him, then woke in a cold sweat.

This was all the good Yin had done, give him nightmares. Had Harry really needed to be reminded? Fumbling in the dark, Harry found the after-nightmare potion, then cast Lumos. He drank the potion, flipped through Malfoy’s parchment to read about it, just to see Malfoy’s neat and careful hand.

_I only want you to have good dreams,_ Malfoy had written.

When a little while later, Harry closed his eyes, he could still see blood on the walls. _I’m sorry_ was written in dripping blood.

_Forgive me._

*

The next day was a Sunday, which meant there would be no Academy classes, but Harry would see Malfoy at Rombe Pickle for a meeting of the Order of the Phoenix. The Order had grown since autumn, taking on more and more non-magical members—friends and family of non-mag-born magical people. By the time Malfoy rolled out of the Floo, the room was already packed, but Malfoy walked straight to Harry, a bundle of scrolls under his arms.

“Syllabi,” he announced, dumping them at Harry’s feet. “For the educational centres you proposed. Shall we review?”

Harry looked at him, the memory of a younger Malfoy still fresh on his mind. He had been better looking, then, his hair brighter, his sharp features softer, rather than hollowed-out and bony. Harry swallowed hard. “Okay,” he said, because he didn’t want to treat Malfoy differently on account of nightmares and Pensieves.

When Harry had brought his ideas for the education centres to the group, Malfoy had been among the first to seize upon the idea, building on Harry’s preliminary suggestions. Since the fall, Harry and Malfoy had been two of the main people working on the project, and Harry felt some discomfort with it now, working so closely with Malfoy. After a half-hour or so, however, Harry wasn’t thinking of the memory in the Pensieve Yin had watched with him, because Malfoy was excited about all the things they could teach non-magicals, and things non-magicals might teach them. He got . . . bright, when he got interested; the yellow light of Rombe Pickle shone in his hair, his face flushed.

Malfoy was doing it now, hands moving rapidly as he discussed the opening days of the courses non-magical education centres would present. The Order had agreed that these initial courses would be offered continuously in the beginning, since many non-magical people were bound to have thousands of questions the day of Reveal. “Maybe we could have something like Orientation at Academy,” Malfoy was saying, “where instead of going from instructor to instructor, perhaps the non-magicals could visit different important magical sites: the Ministry, Hogwarts, the Academy—”

“It wouldn’t work,” Astoria said. “You’d have to Apparate.”

Malfoy’s shoulders sagged. They had already agreed Apparating non-magicals early on would not be a good idea. Mark had pointed out plenty of non-magicals would treat it like a ride; Fairchild had pointed out that Apparition could be terrifying, especially if you didn’t even know magic existed. Achar had brought up the ethics of performing magic on non-magical people, even with their consent.

“They wouldn’t have to travel to the locations,” Harry said, wanting to make Malfoy feel better. “If there was a way to have special guests, important people they need to know—”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, chewing on his lip, “but the problem is always personnel—how to get enough magical people to talk to enough non-magical. I thought if _we_ could take the non-magicals to different people . . . but even if we _did_ Apparate them, the crowds could get too large. I suppose we could show them pictures of places and people.”

“How?” Astoria asked. “Illusion charms?”

“Um,” said Mark. “Or a video screen?”

“Merlin,” breathed Astoria. “Motion pictures are _so_ cool.”

“Tell us how to do that,” Malfoy said seriously, turning toward Mark.

Mark began to talk about A/V equipment, which was sounding like a lot of hassle to Harry—apparently to Nyala as well. She was shaking her head. “That means we would have to purchase all that equipment and have it set up,” she pointed out. “We need to be able to distribute a lot of information to a lot of people, all at once—fast.”

Malfoy snapped his fingers, his face lit up with an idea. 

Harry found himself holding his breath, waiting to find out what it was.

“Flyers,” said Malfoy. “Pamphlets. We could write up little booklets, and distribute them—”

“—and have owls deliver them,” Bennet added.

“Where?” said Mark, who often kept things practical. “I don’t think many people would appreciate having pamphlets flown into their window by owls.”

“Why not?” asked Astoria, with interest.

“Plenty of non-magical people have never even seen an owl,” said Harry. “Except at a zoo.”

“That can’t be true,” said Adebayo. 

“We can just distribute the pamphlets at the educational centres,” said Malfoy.

“We could enchant them to hold a _lot_ more information than just one parchment,” said Astoria.

“You’ll want a lot of them,” said Mark.

“Lee,” said Harry. “He has connections with the _Prophet;_ I wonder if we could use their presses.”

“Brilliant,” Malfoy said, snapping his fingers again. “Are we sure we want to enchant them? Mark, you’ve said holding magic items might be intimidating for some non-magicals—”

“But exciting for others,” said Astoria.

“Maybe we shouldn’t produce too much excitement,” said Teddy. “There’s going to be a lot of it going around.”

“We should talk about what to put on the pamphlets,” Malfoy said, and everyone began talking at once.

Rombe Pickle got too warm on nights like this, despite winter still frosting the windows. Andromeda had lit a fire in the hearth, and the soft glow danced amidst excited hands and loud voices, suggestions, ideas, laughter. Malfoy was in the thick of it, ensconced on the sofa beside Astoria—leaning against her a little, Harry saw. Malfoy sometimes did that. He and Astoria were always touching, and the sudden memory of Malfoy on the train came back to Harry, Pansy Parkinson’s hand in his hair.

When Harry glanced at Malfoy, he was saying something to Mark, and Mark was responding with a question.

“Do you plan on being an instructor at one of the education centres?”

“I’ll be a big important Auror by then,” Malfoy said.

“If you even pass,” Astoria said, jostling him.

“If I pass,” Malfoy agreed. “If I don’t, I’ll be at those centres every day, doing what I can. And if I do pass,” he went on, “I’ll still be doing what I can, whenever I can. Just as long as I’m doing something to help.”

_Mother wants me to complete my education, but personally, I don’t see it as that important these days,_ Malfoy had said on the train. _Maybe he doesn’t care if I’m qualified. Maybe the job he wants me to do isn’t something you need to be qualified for._

Clumsily, Harry stood, heading for the door. He could think outside, with the coolness, the fresh air.

Outside, the orchard of Rombe Pickle was still, silent. The twisted apple trees stood like sentinels, darker than the night except for the occasional sheen of starlight on their bark. The grass was crunchy with frost. Though Harry’s jeans and jumper protected his body from the cold, he began to feel it on his face, his nose mostly frozen by the ten minute mark. At around that time, Malfoy came to join him, an inevitability, like sunrise or spring. Harry didn’t turn to face him, instead looking up at the night sky.

“Hullo, Instructor Potter,” said Malfoy’s soft voice, and Harry felt like it opened a lock inside of him.

Years ago, Malfoy had been talking to his group of friends, sharing his ideas, absorbing their reactions. Later, the group had moved on, and Malfoy had stayed behind. He had noticed Harry, waited for him. Then he had stepped on his face, leaving him invisible, bleeding, vulnerable.

It wasn’t a small thing Malfoy had done. It wasn’t a petty thing. It wasn’t something that had happened because Harry had been careless, because he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It had happened because Malfoy had been cruel, and physically abusive; he had been someone who didn’t care about causing others pain. He hadn’t even cared about causing others death. He had laughed about it. He had been proud of it, Voldemort asking him to kill Dumbledore.

“Is everything all right?” said Malfoy’s low voice.

Malfoy had changed, but that was not what was important about this memory. _Harry_ had changed, because when he looked at that memory now, Harry didn’t feel embarrassed. He didn’t feel stupid. He felt that he had been hurt. And thinking about that memory now, Harry felt tenderness for his past self, compassion for a boy under the stairs who had been kicked when he was down far more than once, sympathy for someone who couldn’t even feel pain as he bled, only humiliation.

What was different now was that Harry had once been hurt, but he had healed. Time had healed him. Ron and Hermione had healed him. Kavika and therapy had healed him. The Academy had healed him, and so had Draco Malfoy, in Malfoy’s own small way.

Harry at last turned to face him.

Malfoy’s face looked silver in starlight.

“Everything is beautiful,” Harry said.

Malfoy lifted his wand, murmuring a little spell as he waved it.

Harry’s face warmed, his nose no longer freezing, catching the scent of cinnamon in the night air. Malfoy often smelled that way. Harry found that he wanted to kiss him.

“While I’ve got you here,” Malfoy said, “we’re talking about which spells to explain on the pamphlet. We’ve definitely got to talk about Apparition, as that’s a really flashy one. We’ll want to talk about flying, of course, and potions. In the interest of being honest, I feel like we could talk about Unforgivables, but of course, we don’t want to scare anyone.”

Malfoy rambled on for a while. Harry should have been listening, but he couldn’t, because Malfoy looked so, so good, his lashes long, his thin lips making lovely shapes, his eyes bright.

Oh God. Warmth pooled in Harry’s gut. If he let himself keep looking, he was going to start thinking about how Malfoy had looked when they had sparred. He was going to start thinking about the warmth of Malfoy’s body as they had danced. He was going to start thinking about fucking him, and he wasn’t going to stop. He was going to kiss him.

“And Rune would say we should talk about wizarding world medicine,” Malfoy was saying. “Do you think Lenore would agree? Because lots of non-magical people are going to think that all the sudden we can cure non-magical diseases . . . Potter?”

The mention of Rune had snapped Harry into a different place, because Malfoy wasn’t in love with him. Was he? He had been, once, and was that what this was? Was Harry in love with him? 

“Harry?”

“We should go inside,” Harry said abruptly.

Malfoy blinked. “Of course,” he said, taking out his wand again to remove the warming charm he had placed on Harry.

They walked back toward the house.


End file.
